


Vincula

by eag



Series: Fortunae Plango Vulnera [14]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Buzzards, Child Abuse, Cruelty, Deaf Character, Death, Drivers and Lancers, Elvis - Freeform, Friendship, Furiosa - Freeform, Gen, History of the Citadel, Immortan Joe - Freeform, Immortan Joe and the Bullet Farmer, Killing, Loss, Loss of Innocence, Love, M/M, Masturbation, Moki, Murder, Other, Panic Attacks, Rape/Non-con Elements, Set sometime before the official founding of the Citadel, Sex, Sign Language, Slavery, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Survival, The Citadel, Traders that cross the vast wasteland, Tran, Violence, War, War Boy Society, War Boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2018-07-11 21:25:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 52,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7070956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eag/pseuds/eag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part I: A captive of the Citadel, Win learns to adapt and survive.</p><p>Part II: To protect her child, Win will do whatever it takes.</p><p>Part III: A solitary life interrupted, Win meets the second great love of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: Win

**Author's Note:**

> Please check tags for warnings. Part 2 starts on chapter 11.

Safe in their blanket-padded nest tucked under the arching hard-shelled canopy, the two signed back and forth to each other in the trader's lingo, their faces covered by condenser masks that captured the water lost from their breaths so that it could be later drunk. The familiar rumble of the truck's engines, the jingling rattle of the crates of supplies, and the bump of the hardscrabble trade road beneath the tires set the pace, the rhythm of their lives; they had known no other existence. 

At twelve, Nguyen had been a veteran of the trade road for nine and a half years. For the last two, his family had joined the Kiers, pooling their supplies and sharing in the risk. It was then that he had met the little Kier, who was the same age almost to the day, and quickly, Kier became his best and only friend.

Sometimes they sat together, held in tight by the protective shell of the tailgate as they watched the waste pass them in slow majesty, long empty stretches of scrub and sand and rock between settlements, and they would catch each other's eyes in understanding, the only visible expressive part of their faces while on the road. In those moments, they were like two solitary explorers of a vast empty land, trusting in the strength and reliability of the caravan to get them to their next stop on the great trade migration route that looped jaggedly through the waste.

Other times, they read, pressed close together, one hand each on their respective sides of the book, taking turns turning the pages. These were books borrowed and lent out as they traveled, sometimes returned, sometimes never seen again. And even then sometimes they had the same book or two that made it back with a constancy as certain as clockwork.

But today they played games together, the games of entwined hands and fingers, counting games and figuring games and the secret games of palms, where one drew a figure on the other one's bare palm, hoping to confound the other as they guessed what had been drawn, and they laughed silently behind their masks as their fingertips tickled each other's hands.

The longest part of the run and in a few hours when they stopped to refuel, Little Kier would go back to her family rig, and maybe he'd go with her if he asked his parents but right now, right now...

Nguyen closed his eyes, arms around Kier's slender shoulders. She was warm and that felt good to him.

They didn't need fingersigns for this. Tired, tired. He shifted, getting comfortable. Kier rested her head against his shoulder, the tight coils of her beautiful black hair tickling his throat and Nguyen smiled to himself beneath the mask as he drew her close and they slept tangled together as the truck churned its way ever eastward.

Bang! They were awake immediately. It was growing dark, which meant that it would soon be time to refuel.

Trouble. Kier moved her hands in a curt, crisp motion.

Yes/No, he signed back. Yes/No backfire?

Bang! There it was again, and quickly Kier signed to him.

Not our noise. Jackals.

He nodded agreement; there was a hitch in the truck as it shifted to a higher gear and soon he could hear the sound of other cars were getting close, cars that sounded strange, their engines growling in a greasy, gunk-ridden way that sounded nothing like any of the trader's caravan rigs.

Fast run, Nguyen signed, Run-hide. 

Low fuel, Kier replied, Yes/No live/die.

And as it grew fractionally darker, he knew that their handsigns would soon do them no good, and so they drew close to each other, huddled together in silence, waiting for the moment the fuel ran out.

 

The rumbling truck finally stopped, and the silence that followed shivered them to their cores. Motionless, Nguyen strained to hear the sounds outside; the gunfire had long ceased, and now there was talking, too far away to be heard clearly. 

Jackals could be bargained with, Nguyen thought, lacing his fingers together with Kier's. They had been run down before in the past and had always gotten out safe. Sometimes they'd pay a toll, some water or food perhaps, fuel or some other supplies. Or it could be an emergency, someone might be chasing them for help. After all, not all waste-dwellers were dangerous. Traders after all were sacrosanct; they were often the only lines of communication between distant settlements and at worst, they might go hungry or thirsty for a few days until they hit the next settlement.

The cargo door slid open, and the two children froze, keeping their bodies perfectly still among the tidy clutter of packed goods, barely daring to breathe, but it was as though the helmeted Jackal had a sixth sense for sniffing out people; he caught them by their clothes and dragged them out roughly. After he set them down, the Jackal pulled their condenser masks off.

Nguyen gasped, scenting the dry, icy air that tasted of dust and the almost herbal pungency of sparse scrub. The air was particularly cold after the hot, humid embrace of the condenser, and his eyes darted to Kier. The Jackal ran his rough-calloused palm over Nguyen's jaw, doing the same to Kier before shoving them to the right.

Nguyen rubbed at his face, as if he could scrub off the stranger's touch.

Dull red light from one of the strange vehicles illuminated the scene, giving just barely enough light to see by and Nguyen's eyes narrowed; were those spikes on the vehicles? 

All around, little specks of red light floated in the deep darkness beyond the trucks, and Nguyen could hear his parents and the Kiers arguing with someone. 

“Traders have traditional right of free passage.”

“This is a right guaranteed by all civilized people!” 

“We go in goodwill. If we didn't, we would have shot first.”

Nguyen reached for Kier's hand, and she tightened her grip on his hand briefly, before tracing the letters lightly on his palm.

Live/die.

Yes/No, he traced back. Clustered around them were the few young people of the caravan, mostly children and young women. Sorted away from them were the elders, parents and grandparents, passengers and Traders alike mixed together. Nguyen's eyes narrowed as he fixed his condenser mask, setting the seal tight.

His eyes wandered to the specks of distant red light, now moving, now still, wondering what it could be. Some insect, a strange mutation that had ventured into the new world created by the death of the old? But the heights of the glowing lights seemed steady, not going much higher or lower than an average range.

Red bugs? Nguyen was about to ask, but then suddenly gunfire erupted, a short burst and then those red lights swarmed on them and as they moved into gleam of the dim red car lights, Nguyen suddenly realized that the floating red lights were attached to men who wore a tiny red bulb on either their hand or their neck. Armed men.

Quickly, the caravan was surrounded and overwhelmed. Nguyen found himself roughly forced to the sandy, poisoned soil of the waste, his face pressed hard to the dirt while a Jackal trussed him up, chaining his wrists and feet, and after a long moment of sobbing stillness, the butchering began.

 

He didn't see most of it; it was behind him, but he heard it and he knew he would hear it until he died. Kier faced him, and he pressed close to her. Unable to take off his condenser to speak, he did the only thing he could; cover her eyes with his long hair so that she too would not see what was happening in the nightmarish red-lit darkness.

The sounds went on and on for hours. Screams filled the air, of those being chopped up alive, of those begging for mercy, of those that had no choice but to watch and through it all, the Jackals spoke their strange lingua, a language he had never heard before, cheerful and busy at their tasks. Nguyen heard the wet slither of organs and the choked groans of the dying, the thump of carcasses as they were loaded into a truck.

His mind drifted into a daze; it seemed that even after he could no longer stand it, the screaming kept going on and on, far beyond the point of endurance.

Nguyen shut his eyes tight and waited for his turn.

 

The loud cry of a lookout cut through the cacophony. 

Something else was coming, and whatever it was, the Jackals were afraid of it than they were hungry, which sent cold dread through Nguyen's body.

The Jackals started packing up their grisly operation; Nguyen could hear them shouting at each other to hurry, and when Kier shook his hair off and tightened her grip on him, locking their arms together, he suddenly realized that they would be next.

Quickly, Nguyen followed Kier's lead and held on tight to the closest person beside him, a boy that he grabbed with his knees who instinctively clung to his legs. Together they would be too heavy, too bulky to carry and whatever it was that was coming out of the darkness, it could not be half as bad as life with murdering, cannabalistic Jackals. 

Whatever form of Death that was coming for them, he knew it was preferable to living. After all, Nguyen knew that his parents and the Kiers had been the first to die.


	2. Chapter 2

“Would you look at that. Not a drop of blood. I'm sure this is where they set up their larder. You can see the wheelmarks. They hang the poor buggers from a hook over a basin to drain their blood. And look, here's a piece of someone's shirt. And some chain.” As the sun rose and they could finally see the aftermath of battle, Joe raked his fingers through his long brown hair, voice muffled beneath his air mask. 

“Gotta hand it to them,” the Bullet Farmer looked about him in disgust, hands clutching his bandoliers, “Buzzards are a clean, tidy bunch if nothing else. Didn't waste one precious drop of crimson blood for their soup. Took all the meat and left us with the metal bones not worth chewing.”

“Don't admire them, Danny! We fought hard to take what we could.”

The Bullet Farmer laughed, a bitter, sour sound. “Well, time to clean up. I want those two captured trucks for this, cargo included. And a couple War Boys to make up for the ones I lost. Once those puppies you caught are fed and grown, you'll have twice as many as I'd want.”

“You'll be paid for your time and trouble,” Joe replied. “Prime! Are you quite done yet? Let's get out of here, I'm tired of standing around waiting.”

“Just sorting out the goods,” the Prime Imperator replied. He turned to the others, ordering them to their work. “Acosta! Ace! Don't bother with the sorting now. We'll sort everything when we get back. Just load the breeders and the children onto the support trucks. Come on War Boys, let's go!”

 

Bleary-eyed and shaking from exhaustion, muscles trembling from tension, Nguyen could hardly move when he was ushered off the bed of the support truck. Their saviors had unchained their legs but not their hands, so he knew that the white-painted War Boys were a different kind of Jackal.

Nguyen clung to Kier as best he could, as he had for hours in the sandy soil, holding her tight so they could not be separated. She was all that he had left; after the long battle, morning showed nothing but corpses and dust.

She signed curtly with her fingers.

Yes/No live/die?

He replied, uncertain. Yes/No.

He never had a chance to look for the bodies after the battle, but he knew that they were long gone; loaded up first into the Buzzard's larder, with not even a speck of their blood to remind him of their existence.

No way to do proper mourning, no way to give thanks for their lives and their sacrifices. His parents, the Kiers, all gone as if they had never existed, erased from this world.

The survivors were all ushered into a narrow room and later, he would know it to be an old warren storeroom, temporarily emptied so it could be used as a processing station, as quarantine space, picked because it was sheltered from the cold wind that howled in through the vast central chasm of the pillar.

The one woman with the baby and the mothers with the very smallest children were taken away first, after their children's soiled clothing was stripped and collected and the wailing babes were wrapped in fresh, clean cloths. Next, a young woman was taken away, escorted off by heavily muscled unpainted men, and that left only the children and adolescents.

The Prime stripped them down under the watchful eyes of the other War Boys, one after another, sorting the boys from the girls and at that moment, knowing that he would be separated from Kier, Nguyen's eyes widened and he felt her fingers tighten on his just as his tightened his grip on hers.

“Handsome pair of lovebirds. You two'll do well in the Vault,” the Prime sneered, gesturing for him. Nguyen stepped forward bravely, having nowhere else to go. For a moment he thought to fight, but no one had hurt them, no one had killed any of them, and they had even been given water after they had been rescued.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

Nguyen bowed his head as he was unchained and hard hands stripped off his condenser, his clothing, and it seemed that they lingered over the sensitive skin of his body, the secret places that he always kept covered. The unpainted Jackal took everything from him, even his shoes and socks.

Cold air bit painfully at his body and Nguyen shivered uncontrollably before being given a scratchy, gray blanket that he wrapped tightly around himself. It was dangerous to be so cold; everyone wore at least two, three layers to keep in the heat and to burn as few kilocalories as possible, but here, no one wore anything on their skins except trousers and a coat of white. Some didn't even wear that seemingly protective white at all, and he wondered how they could survive being so cold, burning so many kilocalories shivering that they wasted all their precious food energy.

“Bah. Pretty, but just another pup. Put 'em over with the others.”

Kier was next and Nguyen knew he could not stop them. Exhausted, he looked away briefly as they stripped her down.

“Finally, a prize breeder! Well, that made the fight worth it, don't you think?” And the men laughed as they wrapped her in blankets, setting makeshift shoes on her feet to keep her warm. They called out to the others, and someone came to take her away.

“Shani!” Nguyen couldn't help himself; he called out to her and by chance, she half-turned as he shouted her name.

The last he saw of her was her face, paler where the condenser covered her nose and mouth, ebon-hued where her skin had been exposed to the sun and she cried for him as he cried for her.

 

_If you're taken captive, then certainly you must choose to live as best you can or choose to die._

_If you're taken captive, then fight your captors until you die or they die._

_If you're taken captive, then that's the way of the wheel. Fate raises you up high or throws down. Either way, you're crushed beneath its monstrous churning._

_If you're taken captive, then you must remember that any person can grow accustomed to anything._

_But you won't ever be taken captive. Let's not speak about this dark business anymore, we're upsetting the children..._

The voices of the past came back to him in a cacophony, briefly drowning out the memories of the long night until another voice interrupted.

“What's your name?”

Dazed, Nguyen looked up.

“What're you called?”

“Nguyen.” And by custom, Nguyen paused before saying his given name, but the War Boy nodded.

“Win? That's a good name. Maybe you don't feel like you won much today, but life's much better up here than down in the waste. All us boys, we always get enough to eat 'n drink and you will too, as long as you work and do as you're told. Look, I'm Ace and this is Acosta and Mosa. We'll take care of you, so you'll never be hungry or thirsty again. You just eat and have a rest. Need to get back your strength.”

And the hot bowl of food was put into his hands. At first Win felt as though he couldn't eat anything ever again, but the War Boy gently lifted a steaming spoonful of vegetable stew to his lips and at the taste, it was as if his traitorous body had decided to live even if he didn't want to.

Win licked the bowl clean, and then the War Boys gave him and the others cups of aromatic water, hot and faintly bittersweet to heat up their bodies from the inside. Combined with the wet, soupy food, this was more water than he had ever had in one sitting, even in the most generous of settlements, a veritable fortune of water once all the portions given out were factored in.

Afterwards, the War Boys ordered the survivors to sleep in the stone room, wrapped in blankets on the stone floor.

Bare, so he couldn't run. Not that he could even if he wanted to; they were so high up on the rock pillar that there was nowhere to run to. Win wondered how he could sleep like this, cold and shivering, but the survivors huddled together, and that made it a little warmer, a little more tolerable. And then he wondered how he could sleep in the dry air unprotected like this, without his condenser, but then he closed his eyes and that was all he could remember doing before falling asleep.

 

Sometime later and it was dark now; when he fell asleep daylight still streamed through the ventilation shaft but sometime in the middle of the night, something thrashed against him and he woke with a gasp.

Disoriented, Win wondered why the truck had stopped but then he remembered where he was and all the pain coming back at once, crushing him under its terrible weight so that for a moment, he could not breathe.

His eyes filled with tears.

It was too dark to see by but as he became more awake he remembered how they fell asleep and knew that beside him slept a boy, the one he had clung onto with his legs. Much younger, perhaps half his age, and the child sobbed weakly beside him until Win drew him close. 

Okay. He drew the word with two shaking fingertips against the smooth skin of the boy's palm over and over but to no avail.

“It's okay,” Win whispered. The boy choked on his sobs and Win could feel the boy's tears soaking into the thin blanket as he blinked back his own tears. Probably not a Trader's son if the boy didn't know the lingo; there were only a handful of Trader families and this particular run had more passengers than not. “It's okay.” He said it again and again, even though he knew it to be a lie, because he needed to hear it too.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for abuse. Please check the tags as well for specifics.

Win cinched the blanket tight around his shoulders. The bare stone was cold beneath his feet, but he had no choice; he had to go to the latrine. On the trucks of the caravan, nothing was ever wasted. Precious water was filtered and recycled, and solid waste was sold to settlements for their gardens. But he remembered what his captors had said about needing to go, so he padded over to the open doorway of stone, peering out.

In the lamp-lit gloom, a handful of War Boys had been sitting outside, gossiping. He had heard their voices faintly even as he slept, the meaning of their words smudged by distance. He didn't recognize these War Boys; they weren't the same ones who had put them to bed. So they were being guarded in shifts, he thought.

Latrine, he signaled with his hands first, before remembering that Jackals didn't know Trader.

“I must use the latrine,” Win said, and immediately, an unpainted War Boy stepped forward, one he recognized from before, a young man that the others called Prime.

“I'll take 'em,” the Prime said, and the others deferred to him, glancing at each other as if daring one another to say something.

Win hesitated, but the Prime caught him by his arm. “Let's go.” He tugged Win forward.

The rough stone floor scraped at the tender soles of his bare feet, and Win stepped as carefully as he could while being propelled forward, trying not to tread on loose, sharp-edged stones. 

The latrine was connected to a system of pipes that he suspected was being pumped to a collection site, though where it was, Win could not even guess.

It was easier thinking about that than the eyes fixed sharply on his back as he made water.

When he was done, he expected to be taken back to the room with the others, but the Prime steered them away from the direction where they came from, through winding, claustrophobic hallways. Soon the floor of the corridor began to tilt upward.

“Excuse me, where are we going?” Win tried to pull away, but the Prime's hand was tight around his wrist.

 

The stone room was empty and all around, the stillness of night breathed heavily upon the crushing stone of the great tower. The Prime had let him go to light a lantern, but Win was afraid to run; it would be easy to lose his way in this labyrinth and what then? Painful death by dehydration was always a fear; without a condenser, he had a lot less time to live as every breath stole water from his body. But that might not be the worst of it; being caught alive and beaten to death was always a possibility.

Win shivered, and it was as though it was a signal to the War boy, who suddenly began to step forward so that Win backed up, nearly tripping over himself until his shoulder hit the wall.

“Tell me your name.” The Prime touched a strand of Win's black hair, long and straight, still loose. Win hadn't had a chance to braid it up for the outside before the Jackals had grabbed them, and without his hair pins, taken from him along with the rest of his clothes, he would not have a chance to put it away safely.

“Win,” Win said, trembling. He made a move to side-step away, but the Prime stopped him easily with a firm hand.

“Tell me bout the blackbird, Win.”

“Huh?”

“Your little friend. The little black bird,” The Prime's fingers tangled in Win's hair, and instinctively, Win slapped the hand away; this was his wealth, not meant to be touched by others, especially not strangers. He'd been saving up all his life, waiting for the right buyer, and he had meant to trade for at least the workings and material for a new waistcoat, a man's waistcoat for when he came of age and became a full partner-in-trade for true.

Immediately Win realized that was a mistake as the Prime grabbed his shoulders.

“Tell me about her,” the Prime snarled.

“Tell you what?”

“Don't play slow. What's her name? Why won't she respond? Is she mental? Deaf?”

“Kier,” Win said, holding her given name tight to himself. “Kier doesn't speak the lingua franca. She only knows Trader lingo.”

“Trader?” The Prime blinked. “How's that spoken? What's it resemble?”

“It's not.” Win shrank from the man's touch. “It's a language of hands. She doesn't know any lingua.”

“Is she is deaf?”

“Kier can hear. Just not well in the speech spectrum. There's a higher and lower spectrum that she can–”

“Joe's not going to like this.” The Prime gripped Win tight, keeping him from moving, and the fear that clutched through Win's stomach made him struggle to get away, scraping his back against the rough stone wall. “Was she born defective?”

“Kier's not defective!” Panicked, Win struggled harder, but it seemed that the Prime was strong beyond reason. 

“I asked you a question, boy.” The Prime's breath was hot against Win's throat and Win flinched as the young man pinned him in such a way that he could not pull away. “Was she born deaf?”

“No. Kier was ill once, as a baby. Her mother said so.”

“Hmm. Maybe...”

“What are you going to do to Kier?” Win ventured, worried.

“Do?” The Prime smirked. “Well, that depends on you, don't it?” And before Win could ask what he meant by that, the man ran his free hand over Win's jawline, feeling the smooth skin there. Win turned his head away, but the Prime only chuckled. “Pretty. Shy too, just like a breeder. Maybe it ain't a bad thing you're not a girl. It's like havin my own prize breeder, all to myself.” His hand closed over Win's hand, prying his fingers open so that Win lost his grip on the blanket. 

It slipped out from around his shoulders, pooling at his feet.

“Lookit this, soft hands that ain't ever done a day's work. Pretty little thing like you ain't never done what we done to survive,” the Prime sighed, running his rough, hard-calloused fingers over Win's palm, and Win jerked his hand away. The last person to touch his hand was Kier, and he was not about to let someone else ruin that memory. But the Prime caught Win's hand in a vice grip, pressing his lips to the sensitive skin of Win's palm, and Win grimaced with disgust.

“Let go.” But the Prime merely pressed himself closer against Win, the War Boy's tool-heavy belt digging cold against his bare skin, and the long tendrils of chain dangling from a leather badge slithered icy between Win's thighs, making him flinch.

“Let's talk, man to man,” the Prime's lips brushed against Win's earlobe, and his hands ran over Win's flanks. 

“What do you want?” Tense, forcing himself still, Win recognized the tone of negotiation, of bargaining, and quickly he felt a little more at ease, as if the world around him had steadied somewhat. Trade was a world he understood, a life that he had been born into.

“Your pretty black bird. She's all lined up to be a breeder,” the Prime said and Win's breath caught in his chest, choked as though he had breathed wrong somehow.

“No...Kier!” 

But before he could do anything, the Prime caught his chin.

“Don't be foolish, little lovebird.” The Prime's thumb stroked along the corner of his lips. “Do anything that pisses me off, maybe I'll tell 'em she ain't defective. But do as I say and...well, I can see you understand. Sharp as a knife, ain't that right. Now you want your little girlfriend to be safe, you do as I say and I'll make sure she gets an easy job, pickin fruit off the trees instead of makin babies. You got that? Good, I know you ain't stupid. Now get down. On your knees.”

Slowly, the Prime eased away, letting Win go, and Win stood shivering.

Obstinately, he stayed on his feet.

He thought of Kier, taken away to another part of the rock tower, somewhere far away that he could not even guess as to where, and he wondered if she was afraid, if she would be lonely without anyone to sign with, without anyone who could understand her.

He wondered if she was cold where she was now.

“You won't let anyone hurt her.” It was not a question.

“Swear by the Immorta,” the Prime said wryly, bemused.

“Promise me.”

“Her secret's safe with me as long as you do what you're told,” the Prime gestured. “Get on your knees.”

As Win knelt, the loose blanket beneath his knees, the Prime rebelted the leather badge weighted with chain that was slung between his legs so that it rested along his hip, and opened up his trousers to reveal his cock already hard between his legs, 

“Kiss it,” the Prime said and Win's brow furrowed, briefly lacking understanding as the Prime's cock jabbed against Win's lips. “Yeah, like that. Now open your mouth. Mmm, that's right, little lovebird. Yeah, with your tongue. Lick it.”

The Prime's hands tangled painfully in Win's hair, holding him in a tight grip by it and suddenly the Prime thrust hard, choking Win so that he gagged, taking in the young man's odor, the rasp of hair against his nose, the stink of sweat and filth that had soaked into the cloth of the War Boy's trousers.

The Prime didn't ease up, taking Win at his own pace, so that tears filled Win's eyes and ran down his cheeks as he gagged and gulped, trying to breathe as the Prime took his pleasure.

 

Wet with his own saliva, the Prime's cock slid between Win's thighs, and the young man grunted, groaned, his heavy leather belt digging painfully into the skin of Win's belly.. It was easier to manage this than taking it in the mouth, and Win's fingers gripped the blanket as the Prime thrust against him over and over, his body hot and heavy on Win's, and there was a brief instance of dark humor as Win realized that he was not cold for the first time in what already seemed like a long time.

He could bear this; this was something he could manage, Win thought. He could get used to anything, even this. He would do this for Kier, to keep her safe.

But then the Prime's roving hand found his cock, and before Win could resist, that hard-calloused hand was stroking him hard.

“No, please...”

The Prime kissed him, his mouth wet and demanding and Win struggled as the man's cock plunged between his thighs, Win's legs pinned together with a strong hand and a braced knee. 

“Please stop!” Win gasped, but the Prime's mouth moved over his again, covering his, swallowing up his protests and then his hips jerked against the Prime to a pace not of his own accord and Win found himself brought to the edge of something that he had never felt before and

 

“You should thank me for that. Givin you some extra nutrition you wouldn't otherwise get.” The Prime chuckled to himself as he caught his breath.

Shaking, Win wiped the tears from his face and licked at the moisture, but the salt of it couldn't wash the man's taste from his mouth, musky and strong.

“Here.” And the Prime stretched out beside him, drawing Win into his arms, tucking the blanket around the boy's slender shoulders. He gave Win a lump of dried fruit, something deliciously sweet with crunchy little seeds in it that Win ate shivering. Afterwards, he pressed a water bottle to Win's lips, and as Win gulped at the water, heated warm from the man's body, somehow some of the shivers died down and he briefly closed his eyes.

 

“Been gone for some time. Something wrong? He sick?” A War Boy asked cautiously.

“Nah, you know how it is. They ain't used to our food 'n water, makes 'em spend more time at the latrine,” the Prime joked, and the other War Boys on duty chuckled.

Win drew the blanket tight around his shoulders. A sharp-edged pebble dug into the ball of his foot as he trod and he stepped forward anyway, ignoring the pain.

“Well, here you go little lovebird. All ready for bed. Sleep well,” the Prime said, running his fingers tenderly through Win's long hair, and the touch made the sensitive skin of his scalp tingle from where the Prime had pulled it tight.

“Thanks,” Win mumbled, and he stumbled back into the storeroom, exhausted.

He found his place again; the young boy from before had moved into the spot he vacated, but it didn't matter to him where he slept.

Win closed his eyes, and wondered how he could sleep without his condenser.

He brought his palm up, to cover his nose and mouth, an ersatz condenser, but then all he could smell was the scent of the Prime's body on his hands and when he remembered who it was that last touched the palm of his hand, his eyes filled with moisture that he dared not lose.


	4. Chapter 4

The wound from the brand seared sharp against his skin and Win choked down his pain, swallowing it bitter like medicine. With the branding, they took his wealth as well, shearing him clean, and when they were done they took the rest of that too, shaving his head smooth like the others so that there was nothing left of his long black hair but the faintest prickle of stubble against his hand. 

Win couldn't stop touching his head, even after they put on the white. Without his hair, his head felt strangely light, and the prickle of stubble beneath his palms felt foreign, alien.

It made him cold all the time. Between that and his bare torso and the too-loose trousers that he cinched tight around his waist and rolled up around his ankles, he could not stop shivering.

 

“All done and processed, Acosta. Where we sendin the new boys?”

“With these four, we'll balance out the the Bullet Farmer's quota, so we have enough working the War Boy's Farm. Those three are tithed to the Immortan's Farm; have someone send them over.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

“No, wait. Tell Ace to send them over. He's supervising the laying of new pipes for the pump station today.”

“Never mind findin me, I'm here. Heard all of it. Will take 'em over on the way to the worksite.” 

And the tall, crooked-nosed War Boy gathered them around him, leading them with his calloused hands clasped firmly around their wrists. Win held the hand of the smallest boy, Tran, the survivor who had stuck close to him and Kier in the waste. He hadn't known the child before they were taken captive – his family rarely took passengers – but he felt something of a kinship to Tran, a kind of tender fondness. After all, Tran was his last connection to Kier, the only other person alive who had known her touch. 

The other boy was about Win's height, the heavy coat of white not quite concealing the darkness of his skin. Win didn't know the other boy's name, but his deep-set eyes seemed sharp-eyed and alert.

The walk along the iron chain bridge was long and frightening, swinging high up above the ground and Win and the others were led through a maze of rock cut tunnels and over another bridge, before gratefully setting foot on solid stone. Then it was a long walk through a maze of corridors, until they found themselves winding upwards, climbing spiraling rock-cut stairs, following the great crack of an internal fracture in the stone that led them ever upward until they broke out to sunlight.

 

They ate at least five times a day, but Win was constantly hungry. Most meals were taken at breaks, dried bars of food that were handed out one at a time, but twice a day they got big bowls of hot, wet soupy stew.

He lived for the hot meals; morning and night, they were eaten indoors where it was not as cold.

A War Boy taught him how to pick beans, how to harvest greens, how to pull weeds, and so he did that every day, until they needed a new terrace dug out. Then he and some of the older boys were set to work with pickaxes, breaking rock. Win worked until his hands blistered and cracked, and when he could barely hold the tools, he was given some strips of cloth to wrap up his palms and so he kept working, breaking and resurfacing the sandstone. The younger boys hauled away buckets of broken stone and once the terrace was cut, they spread soil mixed with waste in a thick layer. There was a natural amount of soil occurring on the rock; he heard War Boys discuss it, wondering if it had always been here or if it had been the work of the unknown, mysterious former inhabitants who had died long before the towers were discovered by Joe, but no one knew for certain. Older, trustworthy boys were sent down to the waste where they dug for clean soil, twelve or thirteen hands below the surface. Even from up here he could see the little pockmarked soil mines, dark spots against the pale dust of the wasteland, and tiny white-painted figures digging and digging.

Wake and eat, work and eat, eat and work, work and sleep. Do it all over again.

Sometimes at night he'd wake suddenly, thinking that they were stopping to refuel and he had to get up and get to help cooling the engines, but then he'd lie back down, heart pounding, remembering where he was. 

And some nights the Prime came for him. He never knew when, but it was always after dark, and he'd be wakened, taken to another place in the stone pillar, somewhere quiet and deserted.

One time Tran woke too, and he had to lie to the child, to tell him he had to go work. Though perhaps that was not much of a lie.

 

“Good. You're healin well. Fine skin like this don't look so good all red 'n painful.” The Prime's greased fingers ran over Win's brand lightly, coating the slowly-healing wound with balm.

Win made a non-committal noise, head bowed. 

“Seem shy tonight,” the Prime kissed the bare skin at the back of Win's neck, just above the brand. “Here, gimme your hands. Ah, poor little thing, you been workin hard up on the farm, haven't you? Look at this, all cracked and calloused. Gettin to be a War Boy's hands for sure. Here, this'll make it better.” And the young man carefully rubbed his hands with the oily balm, soothing some of the pain of his blistered hands.

“Thanks.” Win did not pull away. He no longer tried to remember the touch of Kier's hand. It was hard enough to remember what she looked like. Sometimes when he thought of her, it was only a bare glimpse of the briefest of memories; a flash of her golden brown eyes, the coils of tightly curled hair at her brow, the little crinkle at the corners of her eyes when he made her laugh.

It was as though the everyday grind of life was grinding away his past too, rubbing away at the memories until they were worn threadbare.

 

Afterward, the Prime kept him close by, and Win was reluctantly grateful for the sticky heat of the young man's body.

“So smooth,” the Prime ran his fingers along Win's cheek, and Win stared at the dancing shadows from the lantern along the rough-cut rock ceiling of the chamber, waiting for the moment the Prime would take him back to the others so he could get some sleep before a long day's work. “Tell you what, you been a good boy lately. You want a present? Maybe something good to eat?” 

“Want to see Kier,” Win mumbled.

“Hmm? Didn't get that.”

“Nothing.” Win sighed, and gave the Prime some answer that he knew would please the young man.


	5. Chapter 5

From the farm, Win could see the distant wall of eastern mountains, a jagged line of black on the horizon. He remembered that that was where they had been headed, to trade with a distant settlement that they had heard of through the Trader's network, a weaving community that made new cotton cloth instead of mining for the remains of the world Before. 

New cotton cloth meant water, meant plants, and if people could spare the water to grow fiber plants and food plants, that meant good trading with a rich settlement.

But that was not meant to be, and he wondered sometimes if those weavers really did exist; here near their trading territory, there was no sign of anyone wearing new cloth; it was all the unnaturally perfect weave of thread from Before, perfectly machine-worked fibers that held up against all sorts of weathering and work, mined from ancient settlements beneath the poisonous dust of the waste.

Win went back to picking, and as he did so he put a little pod in his mouth, so small that it was not worth putting in the bucket. He carefully ate it in parts, first the pod, tough and stringy, then the thick skin of the pea and then finally the sweet and faintly green-bitter fruit at its core, irregularly round, a small, firm pearl that he ran over his tongue before bisecting it with his incisors and eating both halves separately.

The boy beside him, the sharp-edged survivor, gave him a look of amusement, arching his eyebrows, his head tilted slightly.

Taste good? The boy's hand moved quickly, but it was unmistakable. Win's eyes widened, surprised. This was Trader, pure Trader lingo, and it couldn't have been an accident.

Hard biting, Win replied, and the two laughed together until the supervising War Boy came to check on them.

*****

Nguyen. 

Moki.

Trader?

All life. Moki's dark eyes were distant, looking out onto the waste. They sat on the rough steps beside the newly cut terrace, their emptied buckets beside them, resting until the buckets were refilled, waiting for the final push to finish watering before before dark.

Win nudged Moki to get his attention. Same. East-south-west-north, Win signed. 

“What're you saying?” Tran sat between them, sandwiched in for warmth as they rested. “You're saying something, aren't you?”

“Secret adult language,” Moki said. “You'll understand when you're older.”

Win laughed, and ran his hand over Tran's head, catching Moki's eye, the corners creased with amusement.

 

How old? Win set the weeding bucket down for a moment, wiping at his brow, smudging the white with the back of his hand. The sun was hot, and even though it made him lose water, the warmth felt good to him.

First me then you, Moki signed with one hand as he pulled weeds with the other.

Really? You, me, same height. I think same.

No. You have 12, I have 15.

“Oi! Speck! Need some pups to do some cleanup work down at the site. You mind?”

“No problem, Ace.” The supervising War Boy raised his voice. “Hey, you three, yeah you! Quit standing around like a bunch of mouth-breathing fools, go help Ace.”

 

Ace gestured for the boys, and one after another, he carefully tied clean rags over their faces, covering their noses and mouths. 

“Dust ain't good for you. No good breathing it in. You gotta keep those on to keep out the dust. And be careful, okay? We're still settin pipe so you gotta watch out. Try not to get in the way. Don't want you gettin knocked over. And stay away from the welders, the sparks can burn. Got it? Here, Tran you go pick up the metal bits and stick it in this bucket. Make sure to get 'em all so we can melt it back down and reuse it. Win, Moki, the two of you take these brooms and get sweepin, make sure to sweep up all the dust, clean up the floor. You know how to sweep?”

Moki and Win both shrugged, so the War Boy took a broom, and showed them the side-to-side motion, the stiff plastic bristles kicking up a tiny storm of rock dust around his boots.

“Like this.”

 

The vast natural chasm was empty and their footsteps echoed through it; they had entered through a round-cut tunnel set with an unspeakably heavy metal door, and even though the room was brightly lit, it was terribly cold, as if the heat of the sun could not soak in despite the light.

A wealth of glass had been set into the great open chasm, protecting it from the elements, and outside through the bubbled, wavery lens of each glass facet, Win could see the iron gray sky, clouds looming heavy and dark.

The sky hung oppressive, distorted.

Turning away, Win began sweeping, glad for the easy work.

Tran crouched on the ground, carefully collecting curling slivers of cut metal, metal shavings, and the ends of sawed-off pieces of metal piping. Win and Moki swept up after the working War Boys, cleaning up the broken chips of stone and stone dust, listening to their gossip.

As he and Moki finished sweeping one section of the great room, War Boys came in carrying heavy gauge pipe that weighed down their shoulders and Win startled, realizing that one of them was the Prime.

The Prime carried bundles of pipes on his sturdy shoulders, bearing most of the weight of the metal as two other more lightly built War Boys maneuvered the ends, setting the long lengths of hollow steel down as Ace directed. Win paused in his work to watch Ace help the Prime heft the bundles off his shoulders with a groan. The pipes were set down carefully with a metallic clatter.

Win briefly wondered what it would be like to be so strong, before turning back to sweeping.

 

“How's the work coming?” As the sky slowly darkened, Acosta came in to check on their progress.

“Got another half-day, but tell 'em it's a full day, just in case we run into trouble. Everything's going smoothly so far. Cleaning up as we go along, so it won't take as long.”

“You should wrap it up for the day and get the boys back to the War Tower, Ace. Lookouts spotted a terrible storm blowing in from the east.”

“That why the sky's been messed up today? All right. Time to get back to the War Tower, boys!” Ace called out, his voice ringing through the vast chamber, the echoing sound catching on the irregular shape of the room. “Finish what you're workin on and put everything away.”

Groans of relief and a little cheer went up among the War Boys; they were originally supposed to work up through supper, and that would not be for another few hours.

“All right, once you're done, get the crew back. Heading back myself before...”

Suddenly, the weak light of day turned into night, and Ace froze, heart pounding. 

“Too late,” Acosta said dryly, and noticing Ace's sudden stillness, he reached out, slinging his arm around Ace's shoulders. “It's a bad storm, but we're safe inside. You were wondering about the dome's frame's tolerance, right? This is as good as time as any to see if its tensile strength holds up. We'll know exactly if it fails...though certainly such an experiment can wait until it blows over; there are better rooms deeper in the warren to hole up in during a storm.”

Ace managed a weak smile, leaning against Acosta. “You're right, of course. Good point, Acosta.”


	6. Chapter 6

After finishing up the day's work, the War Boys took their tools and moved from the great empty room to a warmer, sheltered chamber in a secure, central part of the warren and Win was personally pleased that they were away from that hollow, echoing room that never seemed to warm up, even with a crew of War Boys laboring hard inside. Most importantly, here deep in the stone, they couldn't hear the howling winds and the rattle of sand scraping the glass, threatening to break in. Moving to a different chamber seemed to make everyone less tense.

Without much else to do, the War Boys settled into small groups, gossiping, playing games, or napping. Win himself found himself tucked away in a corner leaning against Moki, Tran tumbled asleep across his lap, though the child had a tendency to wake at any movement, sleepily ascertaining that he was safe before dozing off again.

“Daddy's here, and he's brought supper!” A great, booming voice called, waking them up, and the War Boys all gave up a cheer, genuinely excited and happy.

Who? Win nudged Moki.

Leader Immortan Joe, Moki signed curtly with his left hand, hiding the motion of his fingers behind Tran as the child sat up, rubbbing at his eyes. Second leader brother Danny Bullet Farm.

Immortan Joe stepped in, followed by the Bullet Farmer, and a handful of War Boys carried in the familiar cauldron of soupy hot food, and began doling it out to all those present.

“Been a long time since we had a proper family dinner, hasn't it?”

“Daddy!” The Prime was the first at Immortan Joe's side, and the eagerness on the Prime's face to please was so surprising to Win that he couldn't help but stare; this was a side of the Prime that Win had never seen.

“Prim, have you been good? You been keeping everyone orderly?”

“Yes, Daddy, of course. Just like you said,” the Prime nodded, and Win could see just how pleased the Prime was when Immortan Joe clapped his back heartily. 

“Good job, good job. And, look, if it isn't Ace. And Acosta! You're here too. And all the rest of the boys! That's wonderful, just wonderful. You boys have been doing some good work here on the new homestead.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” Acosta nodded graciously though his manner was cool, unmoved, and Win's jaw set, resolving to be more like Acosta, feeling nothing but contempt for the Prime's ingratiating adulation.

 

“Didn't mean to stay so long today,” Danny scowled. “And now I'm trapped for the duration. Those insolent curs on the farm better have banked the furnaces; sand we can manage aplenty but I don't want them having to restart the forges from cold once this storm blows over.”

“Don't fret so much, Danny,” Joe laughed. “Just relax, eat some food.”

“Easy for you to say; we're in your house. How're the new assets? They working out?” Danny asked, between bites of soupy vegetable mush.

“So I hear. Some of the new boys are here, I think. Prime! Which ones are the new ones?”

The Prime pointed Win, Moki, and Tran out, and Danny shook his head. “Too many little ones to be worth it. Not a good haul.”

“Maybe not, but they can be trained up the way you like if they're small. You just think about it, Danny. You bring a grown man in here, sure, he's stronger and can do more work, but he's got his own opinions, he's set in his ways. He'll fight you if he doesn't like your rules, and you'll be struggling to keep him from sabotaging the works if that's what he's got his mind set to. He won't work hard or obey orders if he doesn't want to. But a boy like that,” and here, Joe pointed to Win with his spoon, “has no opinions of his own. He's a blank slate, ready to be rewritten. In the long run, it's just practicality. Besides, think about it: if boys couldn't work hard, we wouldn't have been able to cut out three warrens worth of living and working space. We'd still be living cheek by jowl in the War Tower like we did when we first lived here.”

“Suppose you gotta point there, Joe.”

“Of course I do. Just look at this one, hardest worker of the bunch,” Joe patted the Prime's head. “Does all the heavy lifting and even then can supervise the boys, keep them from going astray. Isn't that right?”

“Yes Daddy.”

“See Danny, I know my business,” Joe laughed, a hearty, rich sound. “So don't you worry about the haul; it works out better that they're little.”

“What about your breeders?”

“What about my breeders? They're all happy to be with me.” Joe smirked. “But you know how it goes just as well as I do; the adjustment period is the worst. First they put up such a fuss screaming like someone's trying to kill them, but once they get a taste of this, of the good stuff, they're fine, easy to handle. Half the fun's trying to catch them at first, pin 'em down, but they like being caught and shown what's good for them. Once they realize they can't run and you show them the error of their ways, they'll be ever grateful for you, glad you're their protector, their daddy, just like these boys here.” Joe put his arm around the Prime, giving him a squeeze. “Isn't that right, Primrose? You remember, don't you? Been a long time since those days; you're all grown up now. And of course, Danny, it doesn't hurt to give them something sweet after or before; breeders love sweets, you know.”

“Ha, ain't that the truth? So where's my share of the fig harvest?”

 

The two men didn't stay longer than it took to eat and talk, leaving after the cauldron was emptied and bowls were collected and taken away to be cleaned.


	7. Chapter 7

Nguyen. Night. You, where go?

Win stared, so shocked that he was unable to answer.

Yesterday, yesterday's yesterday, more. Where? Moki asked, and Win felt a sick chill go through him.

Nothing. Not important. No asking.

Nguyen, you go somewhere. Where?

“Tran?” Win said aloud, and Tran startled, fumbling his spoon mid-bite.

“Huh?”

“Do you want the rest of my soup?”

“Yeah! Thanks, Win!” And Win handed Tran the bowl before getting up, ostensibly to stretch, but as he stood, he realized he had made a tactical error; his movement had caught the Prime's attention. Quickly, before he could be intercepted, Win made his way to the nearest group of War Boys and sat down in the nearest open space, between two talking War Boys.

“So then in the morning we'll check...Win?” Ace paused mid-sentence.

“Um.” Win dared a glance at the Prime who had moved to stand, but then stopped and sat back down, his eyes narrowed with irritation beneath his grease-blackened forehead. “Sorry for interrupting.”

“Not at all. It's a good thing you're here, young pup,” Acosta smiled, and he caught Ace's eye with a knowing look. “We were just talking about things you can do with scrap metal. Why don't you go fetch us the scrap bucket. Bring your friends too; I think they'll find this interesting.”

“Y-yes sir.” Quickly, Win got up and ran to the scrap bucket.

As Win went about his business, he noticed that Ace and Acosta had their eyes on him the entire time, and Win smiled to himself a little, no more than a faint pursing of his lips when he realized that the Prime would not dare to cause a scene before his fellow War Boys. 

So Win moved a little slower, a little more deliberately.

 

They busied themselves with the scrap; Ace pulled out a dented aluminum can and carefully cutting, pieced it together, building a windmill mounted on a piece of broken car antenna that actually turned. He bent the sharp corners in with his needle-nose pliers before handing it to Win. Win gave it a brief turn with his fingers before giving it to Tran, who in his eagerness to see the toy had half-climbed onto Win's lap.

“If you want, you can breathe on it, Tran. Blow air over it to make it move.”

Tran blew on the petals of the windmill, and it turned, spinning lightly, and his face lit up with excitement, with a joy that Win had never seen before.

“Don't,” Win warned. “Breath wastes water.” 

“Oh,” Tran stopped, expression turning downcast. “Sorry.”

“No, Win. It's fine. Let him play. We're not on the road, and you won't go thirsty living up high like this,” Ace said. “You go ahead and play with that, Tran, however you like.”

“Thanks, Ace.” Tran turned the windmill with his fingers, watching it spin, without his initial enthusiasm.

“Win, it's all right. Things are different now from the way you used to live. We're not even on Bullet Farm rules. They're stricter on water because they need our water to get by, but we're allowed a few more luxuries because our supply is good and plentiful.”

“Huh.” Win made a non-committal noise, feigning agreement. 

“Ace, you have a sharper eye than I do; is this wheel cut round enough?”

“If you want a wheel Acosta, I got some extra buttons you can borrow. Here, lemme find 'em.”

“Perfect; that way I can use these wires for axles. Hopefully the buttons have a central hole instead of evenly spaced holes. Oh, good, they do. Then this can be the steering wheel now, instead of the tires.”

“Are you really going to give it steering capability?”

“Maybe. I have a spool of mending thread somewhere...”

“Drive-by-wire?” Ace chuckled, and Acosta laughed. 

“Ha, drive-by-polyester, more like!”

 

Later, as the lanterns were shuttered for sleep, Win stuck close by Ace's side. He had thought about staying by Acosta, but there was something grim and forbidding about the hatchet-nosed War Boy's manner. Ace would do, Win decided. Second best perhaps, but good enough.

Noticing that the Prime was still watching, Win threw his arms around Ace's waist, pressing his face against the War Boy's chest, nuzzling Ace, bits of crumbling white tickling his nose as he did so.

Ace smelled like sweat, but it was a different scent than the Prime and so Win preferred it already.

“Hey, what's this?” Ace said softly, and he gently tugged Win off of him, uncomfortable.

“Nothing, you're just warm and I'm cold,” Win said, and despite the fact that it was true, he knew it was something that a man liked to hear, to feel like they were the protector.

“Well, if you're cold you should have said something. Take the blanket,” Ace said, pulling the blanket out from under him and wrapping it around Win's shoulders.

“I'm still cold.”

“Then here.” Ace put his arm around the boy, letting him lean against him but no more than that and when Win realized that Ace didn't want anything from him, he felt his entire body relax, relieved but faintly and strangely disappointed at the same time.

 

“Ace, can I ask you a question? About the farm.”

“Sure Win, but I don't know if I'm the best one to ask. Don't really know that much about farm stuff. You should ask the War Boy supervising.”

“He doesn't like me asking questions.”

“Right, right.” Ace yawned. “Hurry up and ask, and then go to sleep, all right? We all got work in the morning.”

“Okay. Um. Where. That is, where is it that the women work? The girls with the jobs picking fruit?”

“The women?” Ace's brow furrowed. “Girls? Oh, they haven't done that in ages. The women don't work anymore. They're just breeders.”

“Wait, what do you mean by that?”

“Only women and girls can have babies, so they don't work. Keeps them from losing their babies, you know. If they work too hard, they might die when it's time to give birth, so we do all the hard work for them. Makes sense, right? Wouldn't want a woman to lose a child because she's had to do heavy lifting or breaking rock and...Win. Win, are you okay?”

“Y-yeah.” Win blinked, scrubbing at the traitorous tears that ran down his face.

“You okay? You sad about something?”

“No.” And that was the truth, because it was not that he was upset. 

It was that he was mad.


	8. Chapter 8

A few days later, after the storm passed, they were back in their usual quarters. When the Prime finally dared to come for him, Win was more than ready.

He followed the Prime silently, feigning obedience, until they were alone.

“You lied to me. You lied! Where is she? Where's Kier? What's happened to her?”

“Kier?” The Prime was genuinely puzzled for a moment. “Oh, your little friend, the black bird. She's picking fruit of course. On the Third Farm.”

“That's a lie. The women don't live there. They live in this tower, the Immortan's Tower. She's been here this whole time, somewhere close by! And...and they're breeders, all of them.”

The expression on the Prime's face was unmistakable; Win had caught him out in the lie.

Nervously, the Prime laughed. “So? I told you I'd spare her from hard work, and I did, so what's the lie in that?”

“We had a deal! You tricked me. And made me do...made me...” The anger burned hot in him, and Win's fists clenched, ready to fight, even though he knew there was no chance of overpowering the heavily-built War Boy, already a man and a strong man at that.

“What? You liked it, you even asked me for more!”

With an inarticulate cry of rage, Win launched himself at the Prime, who caught him laughing and held him at arm's length.

“You filth! You monster! What's happened to Kier? Where in this warren is she?”

“Locked up safe and sound with the other breeders. She's gonna be a mommy any day now. I did everything you asked me to; I kept her secret. And because the Immortan Joe thinks she's defective, he gave her to me to use. So that baby she's carrying? It's mine; I got do her first because I'm Joe's favorite.”

Fury, and for a moment it was as though Win could not see and the sounds he made were alien to him, inhuman, as he fought to hurt the Prime.

 

When Win came to himself, he was pinned by a strong pair of arms and he was afraid, terribly afraid, imagining how the Prime was going to hurt him, to make him pay for his insolence. But when he took a breath, he realized it wasn't the Prime, it was Ace.

“Shh, shh. It's just me, ain't gonna hurt you. It's all right, calm down. Deep breaths, through the belly.”

“I'm okay. Really, Ace I'm quite all right.” But it wasn't all right, and it might never be all right again.

Ace didn't loosen his grip. “Moki told me, so I told Acosta and we came over even though we're not supposed to be here when we're not working. So he's talking with Primrose right now, working things out. You three are coming back to the War Tower with us; we're swapping you out for three older War Boys.”

“Please let me go,” Win said, as calmly and evenly as he could.

“No, not yet. Look at you, still shaking and ready to fight. Don't think I haven't broken up fights before; I can tell you're not done, you still got a lotta fight left in you. You're just lucky he didn't break anything.”

“He wouldn't dare damage the assets.”

“No? My face says otherwise.” And Win twisted minutely to look at Ace's broken nose, so Ace shifted his grip on Win, holding him hard.

“Oh.”

“Come on, you're coming with me. We're going right now.”

“No, Kier...”

“Huh? What is it, Win?”

“Nothing.”

 

Ace woke Moki and Tran up, leading them out of the Immortan's Tower. Ace carried Win the entire way back to the War Tower, not letting go. Shivering, Moki and Tran followed behind, holding hands tight, Moki hanging onto the Ace's heavy leather belt.

There was little moon tonight. 

Win stared over the black edge of the bridges, into the void below. 

This was what death was like, wasn't it? Darkness and loneliness and anger, and it felt as though there was nothing more left inside Win but fury and despair, until he realized that death was probably better than feeling like this.

If he were dead, he wouldn't have to feel this pain anymore. The pain of dying would be insurmountable but brief, and after that, he wouldn't feel anything.

Briefly, he tensed, ready to fight his way free, but Ace muttered something in his ear that he would always remember.

“Don't try anything stupid, because you'll knock us all over the edge.”

Later, Win would be grateful that Ace had spoken; the desire to jump in him was so strong that he almost forgot about Moki and Tran. However he felt, they didn't deserve to die because of his choices.

But it took him a long time to be grateful.

 

Win rubbed absently at his black-bruised bruised wrists and arms as he waited, the dark color seeping through his white. Everything hurt, but he supposed he was just going to have to get used to it, like everything else. 

Sorry, Moki signed. No choice.

Win shook his head. “Don't be.”

“Okay, enough. Come on. You're working with us now,” Ace said. “No more farm work for you three. Moki, go with Acosta and see what he needs. Tran, you and Win stay with me. And Win? Stay where I can see you; you're not allowed to wander off by yourself anymore. I need someone responsible to help keep count of the screws and parts, all right? Tran, Win's going to help me and you're going to watch and learn. Win, I need you to keep things in order. Don't let anything get lost or misplaced, and make sure to help me remember the orientation of the parts. Here, let me show you how it works. Taking apart this motorcycle engine today. It's facing the way I want, so I start with the screws, one at a time, from the top left and I'm going clockwise. Use the chalk to sketch a schematic in miniature like this on the slate, doesn't have to be perfect just has to give us an idea of the shape. Don't worry about making a mess with the drawing, we can always rub it off and redraw. Now set each screw in its place, good. Like that. Okay, give me a minute to get the case off. Now we're on the second layer, so draw a new schematic...”

*****

“Don't make me have to tell you again. If you keep this up, I'm going to have to report you to Imperator Sujin. Get your hair cut, cut it regularly, and stop making us tell you what to do. You look slovenly. And shave that stubble off, Win, stop being so insolent. Win, you're the absolute worst.”

“Yeah, yeah. Got it.”

“Now, you lazy piece of trash!”

“Okay, okay, I'm going, I'm going.” Win slowly straightened up, deliberately stalling.

“Go!”

“Yessir.” Win's voice dripped sarcasm.

 

“Win! Stop that! You save your fight for the Buzzards!” Ace shouted, running in to break up the fight, shoving the War Boys apart. “Plenty of Buzzards and Bandits in the waste to fight. But don't you ever be picking fights with one of your fellow War Boys.”

Win wiped the blood from his face absently, addressing the Imperator who had just arrived, ignoring Ace entirely. “Was under the impression that fighting for standing was allowed, sir,” Win said icily.

“Not when you keep fighting the same War Boy for the same position every day. Now you're done with this, got it? No more. You're both to let this go or one of you is getting sent up to the Farm, and I'm looking at you, Win.”

“Yes, Imperator Otto.”

 

“Hey look, it's Win.”

“Shh, quiet, fool. Don't catch his attention.”

“Why, what's the matter?”

“You don't know him yet? Where do you live, in a hole in the ground with the Wretched? Win'll chew you up and spit you out. And that's just for fun. No one puts up with him but Moki and Moki's riding high these days so you know what that means.”

“Uh, politics?”

“Yes, dummy, politics. Always politics and favoritism around here and... Ah rust! Think he heard us. Thunder up, he's coming this way. Go, go. Get out of here! No, go the other way, don't follow me!”


	9. Chapter 9

“New War Pup? What's its name?” 

“Dunno, its mum don't talk.” The Tertius Imperator walked deeper into the warren, away from the bridges and set the squirming child down, blocking it with his legs so that it wouldn't wander. “She wrote it down on my hand. Lemme see. N-G-U-Y...no, no, that's not going to work. What kind of name is this? How do you even say it? Crazy breeders.” The Tertius Imperator wiped his hands on his trousers, smearing the greasepenciled letters. “No matter. Just give it a name.”

“Uh...don't make me choose. Not good at this at all, Imperator.”

“All right, I'll handle it.” The Tertius Imperator knelt down by the child, studying it for a long moment before nodding to himself. “Well, how bout it, pup? How's Stonker sound? That a good name?”

“Stonker,” the child lisped, and the Tertius Imperator patted its head indulgently.

“Yeah, that's a fine name, pup. All right, get it processed, gotta get back to the Immortan's Tower.”

“Sure thing, Imperator.”

 

“They brought in a new War Pup for processing. Already? Isn't this like the second one in the last thirty?”

“Well you know what happened about 1400 days ago. That's when we had that great battle with the Buzzards.”

“Oh right! Yeah, heard about it from one of the fighting boys. That was historic. Makes sense, when you do the count.”

“Not all breeders are prize breeders, or else we wouldn't be getting these pups. Look, one of us gotta take it to the shop to get processed.”

“No way you're sticking me with a snotty rat. Hey look, it's Win, let's make him do it.”

“You ask him, I'm not stupid. He'll bite your head off.”

“Fine, coward. Oi! Win! Got a job for you!”

Win looked up as he walked by, disturbed from his thoughts. “What?” he snapped. “Don't you Organics have something better to do than lazing about like lizards in the sun?”

“Organic Mechanic's called us to work but this new War Pup needs processing. Name of Stonker. You mind?”

“Yes, in fact I do mind, because I absolutely refuse to do anyone else's...” But then Win saw the child, the War Boy's hand grasping its wrist and he paused for a long moment, mouth agape in surprise. 

“Uh, you gonna do it or not because...”

“Fine! I'll handle it,” Win snarled. “But you two owe me.” Win snatched the child from the other War Boy, and hefting it awkwardly in his arms, took it deep into the warren.

“What's wrong with him?”

“Maybe this was a bad idea...you see the look on his face? You think he'll throw the pup off the edge or something?”

“Least he's not gonna bite off my head. Feel sorry for the pup though.”

“Better it than you, mate. Better it than you.”

“Yeah.”

 

Stony-faced and heart pounding, Win walked until he somehow stumbled into a practice shop, the big one that they used for meetings sometimes. The child squirmed in his grip, uncomfortable, so Win set it down. The instant he saw those golden brown eyes, he knew. This was Kier's child. The child was Kier in miniature though tawny, not as darkened as Kier was from the touch of sunlight, and he thought of the last time he had seen her, the lovely darkness of her face, her eyes gleaming with tears.

Win could not stop staring. He searched the child's face and found only Kier; there was nothing of the Prime Imperator in this little one. 

If anyone could create something good from bad, Win thought, it would be Kier.

“Kier,” Win whispered to himself, and all the pain came back again, crushing him down so that he wobbled, stumbling to the stone floor, the old, scarred wound torn open in an instant.

The child looked up at him, confused, and it rubbed at its eyes, as if tired, lower lip trembling.

“What's your name?” Win whispered hoarsely. “What do I call you?”

And the child's hand moved, forming the letters, fumbling with childish fingers but with a hint of that crispness that Kier always signed with and Win cried, for the first time in many years.

 

“Glory me,” Win woke as someone moved against him, hot and sticky. “If you touch me again,” Win growled, “Swear you'll regret the day you were born... Oh. It's you. No, no, no, it's okay. It's okay...” Quickly he remembered where he was, and Win patted the crying child leaning against his shoulder, trying to comfort it as it cried.

“Want my mum,” Stonker sobbed, hot tears streaking through Win's white, exposing long lines of bare skin. “Want my mum...”

“You and me both,” Win sighed, and he closed his arms carefully around the child's small form, rocking it gently until its sobs subsided into hiccuping breaths. “And I'm sure she wants you back. Certainly, as much as I'd like to, I can't steal you from the Citadel and run off. That'd be traitorous and besides, where would we go? To the Buzzards?” Win laughed, bitterly, and with his shop cloth he wiped the little one's nose. “You're too little for a life on the road without a caravan. And I don't think Traders come through this territory anymore, not since that time, only slavers and Jackals. Bandits. Whatever they're called.”

He remembered what he had to do, take the child to processing. But to be shorn of this beautiful curling dark hair, and to be branded...

Win's hand brushed back the wealth of black hair, briefly running his fingers over the tight spiraling coils and felt the smooth skin behind the boy's neck, remembering Kier.

_If you're taken captive, then certainly you must choose to live as best you can or choose to die._

“I can't choose for you. That wouldn't be fair. You don't know enough to choose. You haven't lived long enough to know,” Win said, carefully easing the child off of him. He stood up, dusting himself off and offered the child his hand. Stonker gripped his fingers tightly. Win could tell already that the child would be tall and slender like Kier; it was already half a hand taller than the other new pups he had seen around the warren.

_If you're taken captive, then fight your captors until you die or they die._

“You're far too little to fight anyone. Someone must fight for you.”

_If you're taken captive, then that's the way of the wheel. Fate raises you up high or throws down. Either way, you're crushed beneath its monstrous churning._

“Someday when you're older and you'll remember, I'll tell you more about your mum. The wheel threw us both down, long before you were born. But you needn't be thrown down too.”

_If you're taken captive, then you must remember that any person can grow accustomed to anything._

“We all pay for this life, one way or another. So you have to be brave now, Stonker, because it's going to hurt. And I wish I didn't have to take you to be processed, but in order for you to live long enough to make your own choices, we must do this. This is the world we live in. This is the life we have.”

_But you won't ever be taken captive..._

“I won't let you down.”


	10. End Notes: Part I

Many thanks to my exceptional prereader Tfuriosa. Thanks also to babyrubysoho for asking such good questions that some of the answers were adapted for the end notes. 

Special thanks to K for the kind words of support and inspiration.

** End notes **

The title, like many of the titles of the other stories, comes from _Carmina Burana_. In the Orff version, it is part 11, _Estuans Interius_ , or, _Burning Inside_. The word is translated here as 'chains', and comes from this stanza:

I am carried along  
like a ship without a steersman,  
and in the paths of the air  
like a light, hovering bird;  
chains cannot hold me,  
keys cannot imprison me,  
I look for people like me  
and join the wretches

For those curious, the line containing 'vincula' is the first line of the tempo change.

 **Chapter 1** :

Since the Traders can't be as certain of water sources as the settled people are, they are more rigorous in their water conservation. 

Children aren't generally brought onto Trader caravans until they're weaned and toilet-trained, and that goes for passengers as well. Generally a pregnant Trader will briefly settle down in a settlement to give birth and raise their child up until about age three, give or take.

Traders address each other by their family names, especially in public. Given names are only used in private.

Traders are very insular and generally hide their young children from outsiders and even other Traders. Passengers are often hidden too, so even though they travel together, they might not interact very much outside family units. The reason they're hidden is to reduce the risk of kidnap/being sold into slavery. For two families to come together like this, it means that they trust each other deeply and possibly means that they've formed a new family of four adults. It's not mentioned in the text, but Nguyen had two mothers, and Kier possibly had two fathers, and that both children were possibly adopted from different settlements as toddlers.

The games Nguyen and Kier play together are ones that they made up, so they're the only two that know how to play them and they've only played with each other. 

As Furiosa mentioned in _Vulnera_ , the most dangerous part of any run is toward the last part of a long leg, where fuel is running low and vehicles are near overheating. So the Traders are very unlucky; any other time they probably could have easily outrun the Buzzards.

The boy that clings to Nguyen's legs is Tran. It's never clear if this is a given name or a family name, because he was a passenger. 

**Chapter 2** : 

Comparing this with the timeline in _Rota_ , this is after Jan's death and sometime after the Bullet Farmer's quarrel with Immortan Joe, but before the foundation of the Citadel (early part of chapter 4).

The Ace and Acosta are around 17, the Prime Imperator is in his early 20s, and Immortan Joe is in his 30s. For those curious about other characters, most of them aren't born yet, though Coil should be around 2 at the start of the story.

The corpses that Nguyen saw were fallen Buzzards and War Boys, but not the corpses of anyone he recognizes.

The woman with a baby is a passenger. She gave everything she had to get on the caravan, to get away from an abusive situation. Normally Traders don't take infants along, but she was desperate to get away and the Traders agreed. These would be Traders who are not the Kiers or the Nguyens.

Showing more skin in public than one's hands and face is probably considered by Traders to be indecent, so secret places of the body means most of the body including things we would not consider indecent to show.

Immediately Kier gets better treatment because of her value, given more blankets and shoes, in contrast to the boys. I imagine the shoes they put on Kier to be something like the roughly-made shoes that Capable wears in the movie.

Kier's given name is Shaniqua, but Nguyen calls her Shani.

The imagery of the wheel of fortune comes from _Carmina Burana_.

When I wrote this, I realized that throughout the series, there is a rather tragic element of the Ace's belief in the Citadel system: that he has such a low threshold for what constitutes a good and fulfilling life. As long as there's regular food, water, safe shelter, and a reasonable amount of respect from his peers, he seems to think this is enough. I think it's because it's been so long since the Ace has had a loving family and he's toiled and suffered for so many years that he no longer has any other frame of reference. Contrast this then with Win, who has been surrounded by love for as long as he can remember, but is reduced to having no more than his life, a thin blanket, and a bowl of hot food. The Ace's words of comfort then are rather hollow.

The aromatic hot water is tea made from dried orange peels, to give the survivors some extra vitamin C in hopes of warding off sickness. They're kept for about three days in quarantine. In _Vulnera_ , the War Boys run a makeshift quarantine by keeping new slaves in the hold. Since the journey is around three days, they figure as long as no one's sick at the end, everything should be fine.

The boy Win is comforting at the end of the chapter is Tran.

 **Chapter 3** :

Win speaks very elegantly in contrast to the rough talk of the War Boys, hinting at his past education. Later, he chooses to keep this style of speech to both emulate Acosta, and as a form of rebellion against the system, to keep his individuality.

Never really gone barefoot, Win's feet are very sensitive.

Bird of course, is slang for young woman.

Win's hair has never been cut, so it's about waist-length. 

I imagined the Traders (adults and adolescents) to wear something that resembled a three-piece suit, emulating the traditional garb of a businessperson.

Lingua here is literal, from the Latin meaning 'tongue', to differentiate it from the Trader lingo, which is not spoken. So Kier knows no spoken language.

I'm not sure about the specifics of Kier's deafness. Her deafness came out organically as part of the character as I was writing her. My guess is that she contracted something like measles or scarlet fever as an infant or toddler. She did not interact much outside the Traders.

 **Chapter 4** :

The other boy is Moki, whose name is a gender neutral name that means “cloudy” in one of the Aboriginal Australian languages. Moki is definitely meant to be an Indigenous Australian. Moki first appears in chapter 2 of _Euphoria_ as Imperator Acosta's crew lead.

These five-times-a-day meals are two large hot meals and three snacks of dried food bars, spread throughout the work day. I haven't gotten around to talking about it much, but on the road to Bartertown, crews are on a minimum 5-times-a-day meal schedule, where small meals of food bars are eaten at intervals.

Later, some of the Wretched would live in those holes that the War Boys dug out.

It occurs to me that after big sand storms, the farm has to be dusted off too, which is probably why they have so much runoff (as seen in the movie, the pool that Max falls into). They probably spray off all the plants and do their best to remove the light layer of soil that the dust storm has deposited, given that the topsoil of the waste is considered toxic (nuclear fallout).

Apparently it takes a pretty long time for branding wounds to heal properly. Taking into account less than ideal nutrition, this is some time later, perhaps a month or more.

Win's already asked about Kier; now he knows better than to ask.

 **Chapter 5** :

The Traders were originally heading toward the Green Place.

The Trader's network is mostly word of mouth, but perhaps also some radio.

Given that he knew people that were killed by dust pneumonia, the Ace is concerned about the boys inhaling too much dust.

Of course, they are working on building the Vault. At this point in time, I don't think they've carved that central pool yet.

In _Fortuna_ the Prime was described by the Ace as hard-working and cruel. Here, he's actually helping out by working under the Ace's supervision. Though he's younger, because the Ace has an Engineer background in this field, he's is in charge of the crew laying pipe in the Vault. Most of the pipe is hidden from view in the trough where the potted plants are placed, which is where Angharad and Capable retreat to have their conversation at the end of _Euphoria_ , chapter 3. However the three boys are working on cleaning the entire lower floor.

In this early period, the War Boys have more flexibility in wandering the entirety of the Citadel. Later, Immortan Joe will restrict access to the Immortan's Tower. There are no bridge guards at this time.

 **Chapter 6** : 

The reason Moki knows who Immortan Joe and the Bullet Farmer are is because as one of the older adolescents, he was interrogated after his capture.

Some of the powerful people with agency turn out to be victims...

 **Chapter 7** : 

...and some of the people who are victims realize that they have agency.

The Ace's family trade was in making windmills, so here he's made a pinwheel for the boys to play with.

Informal social control is a powerful force in War Boy society.

Win is probably quoting some Trader adage when he says “Breath wastes water.”

Because of a lifetime wearing condensers on the road, Win is more used to looking at people's faces from about the bridge of their nose on up. 

The Ace is paraphrasing the things Immortan Joe has said about women.

 **Chapter 8** : 

The towers are named: The War Boy's Tower (aka the War Tower), The Third Tower, and The Immortan's Tower. The Third Tower might have another name, but I'm not sure what it is yet.

The Ace and Acosta came over from the War Tower at night to handle this. It's very possible they overheard some of the conversation between Win and the Prime before interfering.

The Prime broke the Ace's nose in Rota.

The Ace solves his emotional problems by drowning himself in work, so here he's giving Win an outlet to do the same.

Otto, because spoken it sounds like “Auto.”

Win is fighting for the sake of fighting.

Alliances are important in War Boy society. Even though their relationship is strained, and even though Win's behavior has deteriorated, Moki always does his best to help Win.

 **Chapter 9** : 

The Tertius Imperator is first seen in _Ekstasis_.

Stonker is defined as “something that is very large or impressive of its kind.” I first came across the word reading BBC Formula 1 highlights (“That was a stonker of a lap!”).

As time passes, jobs are being codified. Here, Win calls some War Boys “Organics” because they don't deal with any of the mechanical work. These lower ranked War Boys are general laborers who don't have anything to do with cars.

The other mothers respected Kier's choice of naming Stonker, which is why Stonker doesn't have a spoken name until he's named by the Tertius.

At the end of this story, Win is about 16 or 17. I have some ideas as to what happens over the next ten years or so before he meets Coil and becomes Coil's Driver.


	11. Part II: Win and Stonker

Hours later and Stonker still sobbed from the pain of the brand. Win knew there was not much more he could do for the child, other than hold the cold metal of his water bottle against the ointment-smeared wound. Carefully, he rotated the canister, hearing the fresh water slosh within.

“Poor little idiot,” he muttered to himself, and then Stonker threw himself in Win's arms, sobs shaking his body. 

Hefting up the exhausted child against his snot-smeared shoulder, Win sighed, trying to remember where the other children slept. They had their own nest; no one wanted to wake up soaked in urine, so most of the younger ones were segregated into their own nest, where some low-ranked Organic would be stuck mucking out soiled sand in the morning.

With an easy motion, Win tossed his water bottle into his car through the open window and headed up toward the middle warren; tired out from crying, Stonker had finally fallen asleep and Win cradled the child in his arms, awkwardly trying to balance the child's weight without accidentally dropping him.

The dim low lights of the warrens emitted a poisoned sodium-vapor glow. He hated walking the halls at night; without shafts of cheerful sunlight coming through the stone, the empty hallways reminded him of a past that he did not care to recall.

As he made his way, he caught a quick glimpse of the figure of a War Boy darting into the children's nest. In the dark, it was too hard to see clearly who it was, but there was something troubling in how the War Boy had his boots off, clasped in one hand as he snuck into the nest silently.

Win tightened his grip on Stonker and walked briskly, following the whitened back.

 

Coil wrapped the blanket around himself and Dart tightly, pulling the cover over their heads. If they didn't make too much noise, maybe they wouldn't be noticed. 

Lately, a War Boy would come in sometimes at night when everyone in the War Tower was sleeping; Coil had been woken more than once before by someone's crying, and a deeper voice telling it to hush. Strange sounds in the darkness, strange sounds that sometimes woke everyone up, but no one could say who it was or what they were doing; only that it happened on dark nights when there was less moonlight to go by.

And when he had said something to the overseeing War Boy on the farm, the War Boy had laughed it off and told Coil that it must have been just a nightmare, to forget about it.

But Coil couldn't forget.

He didn't know exactly what was going on, but he knew that whatever it was, that it was bad and he had to avoid it as much as possible. So he had taken to sleeping deep in the center of the nest when he could, back to back with Dart so they'd be ready to fight if they had to.

But tonight he had come too late to bed and the only place left was at the edge of the nest, closest to the hallway. The dangerous place.

Coil tensed, seeing a shadowy form enter the nest, looming over him.

 

In the faint moonlight that sifted in from the airshaft, Win could see the War Boy kneeling beside a child, tugging back the blanket that had been tucked firmly over him. Though the child's eyes were shut, the fear and tension in his face spoke volumes.

The War Boy began unfastening his trousers, loosening his belts.

Without letting go of Stonker, Win stormed forward. 

“What are you doing here?' Win hissed, dragging the War Boy roughly away from the child with his free hand.

“Nothing. It's none of your business what I do,” the War Boy sneered, stumbling briefly as he was tangled in his loose trousers. But as he got his feet back under him, and Win recognized him at once, some worthless, pointless Organic that like so many others, he hadn't ever bothered to know.

“Get out of here,” Win said coldly, cracking the knuckles of his hands one after another while balancing Stonker. He looked up at the Organic. The War Boy had half a hand and about eleven, eleven and a half kilos on him, but Win gauged that this was a fight he could win, one way or another.

“You get out of here! Called it first so I get to stay.” The Organic kicked off his loose trousers, as though he didn't even care that he was caught out, and Win's eyes widened in a mixture of surprise and disgust at the sight of the War Boy's erection.

“Called it? What do you think I...no, don't answer that. Never mind. Certainly whatever you're trying to do is something I don't want to know about. All right. So you want play this sort of game? Fine. Let's play.” Carefully, Win set Stonker down in the nest, in a bare patch, untangling the sleeping child's grasping hands from his neck. Straightening up, Win looked around the nest. Though the forms of the pups were indistinguishable in the dark, all around were little sleepy murmurs, here and there a choked-back sob; it was already too late to back out, they had woken up some of the children. 

Win's fists clenched tight.

“Haven't got all day, Mechanic. You think you're so chrome, sitting on your butt all day in the shop? You don't know how strong a real working Organic is. Gonna thresh you harder than the grain,” the Organic sneered. “Scythe you down to size.” 

Win shrugged his shoulders, loosening muscles deliberately, ready to fight. “Let's take this into the hall; there's no good place here to fight,” Win said reasonably, and the Organic spat in disgust.

“Filthy coward. Don't try to squirm out of this, I know you'll just run to the nearest Half-life Noble if we get to the halls.”

“Let's just take this outside civilly and not wake the children.”

“Ready to fight now, you trashed out piece of junk,” the Organic stood his ground, blocking the doorway.

“Don't say that I didn't try to dissuade you,” Win said mildly. Without warning, he moved in a singular swift motion, throwing a handful of sand into the Organic's eyes with his right hand, and slamming the Organic's jaw with the base of his left palm, hitting the War Boy so hard that his teeth clicked together, clipping his tongue so that blood gushed down his chin.

The War Boy fell to the stone with a roar of pain, and the sound woke the rest of the children, including Stonker who began to wail.

“This! Is for waking the pups! You don't know how long it took me to get that babe asleep!” Win gave the Organic's fleshy side one vicious kick after another. “And this is for whoever else you've hurt, you disgusting excuse of a human being!” And he kicked the Organic again, aiming for the kidneys. Suddenly remembering another War Boy from a long time ago, the fury boiled up in him, hot and blinding, and there was a delicious satisfaction to the impact of boot against body, steel against bone, and it was like all the fights he couldn't have won as a young boy, condensed into this fight.

The Organic screamed, begging for mercy, but Win put his boots to the task, sending blow after blow to the War Boy, too far gone to stop.

“And this is to teach you to stay out of the children's nest!” Win said, as he sent his boot into the War Boy's crotch, before finishing him off with a crushing stomp to his bared testicles.

 

As most nests were in the middle warren, the noise had woken many; in the end, Imperator Acosta had come too, woken up by his subordinates in the middle of the night to deal with the discipline. Though Win had expected to be punished himself, he had been reprieved; the bulk of the blame came down on the Organic. The evidence was damning, the War Boy had too few friends to plead his case, and was so despised for his perfidy that he was never given a chance to run to the Wheel Shrine for sanctuary, had he been able to even run. Instead of a light punishment like being beaten or demoted further down the line, the irritated, yawning Imperator had ordered him shredded, as a warning to anyone who might be tempted to steal or damage the assets. 

That was far worse than being trashed.

The Organic had shouted and plead his innocence, but his bare feet and discarded trousers already said too much. Irritated, muttering Lift Imperators came to haul him away, almost unrecognizable without their day gear but for their unwhitened skin, darkly tanned in odd places where their clothes and masks didn't cover them.

As much as Win knew it was the Organic's own fault, he was not pleased to hear that the War Boy would be shredded. No one wanted to hear anyone's screams and cries for the several long days it took to die.

 

It was past moonset before everyone of consequence left, but Win stayed behind even after the last Half-life Noble had given up and ordered everyone to bed. After what Win saw by chance, he knew couldn't leave Stonker alone to face the mercy of the turning, crushing wheel. Even though he was so tired he could barely see straight and longed for his nest, he knew he couldn't leave Stonker to fate, to the haphazard childhood of the War Tower; there were too many variable dangers, dangers that Win hadn't thought about in years until tonight. 

So shoving his way gently into the edge of the children's nest closest to the hallway, Win collapsed on the sand of the nest facing outward, wiggling new sand into the slightly damp patch beneath his shoulder and drawing Stonker against his chest so the child could sleep warm and protected in his arms.

That was already a mistake, Win thought; even though the night was cold, Stonker was too hot, like a tiny sticky furnace pressed against his smeared and stained white. Coupled with the over-warm children sleeping around him, Win wondered how he could fall asleep so overheated; he was accustomed to the cool of sleeping alone. 

Woozy with exhaustion, Win briefly felt at the base of his left palm and tried to calculate the horsepower one could get out of a sleeping child's body heat. Before long, he fell asleep with a sigh.

Behind Win, pressed against the War Boy's whitened back, Coil felt all the tension ease out of his body; here was someone who would protect them. He had real no way of proving this, after all, a less trusting War Pup might have thought that Win had fought the other War Boy for rights to the nest, but Coil could feel it in his bones that he and the others would be safe from now on.

Coil closed his eyes, drawing closer to Dart, and slept the rest of the night through without waking.

 

Tenacious and undeterred, Win slept in the War Pup nest every single night until Imperator Acosta intervened and set a Revhead of good moral fiber as the night guardian of the children.

That was the first time Coil met Win, but it was long after Win's death before he connected the two War Boys together, the Win of his memories, and the Win of his heart.


	12. Chapter 12

“Have ta go,” Stonker squirmed, and he gave Win another poke.

Irritated, Win woke, bleary-eyed.

“What?” He growled, and Stonker whimpered, nearly dancing with the effort of holding it in.

“Have ta go!” 

“Oh. Oh... Oh! “ Immediately, Win was on his feet, scattering sand around him. Not bothering to pull on his boots, half-asleep and stumbling, he grabbed Stonker and ran to the nearest lavatory as quickly as he could, making it barely in time.

“Every morning. Every single morning,” Win yawned, exhausted. “Next time... wake me up earlier, all right? Before it's an emergency.”

“You were asleeping,” Stonker said, with a childish lisp, and then he made the sign with his hands. Sleep deep. 

A pang went through Win and he nodded, patting Stonker's head. “Yes, yes. Asleeping. So wake me up. Give me a good shake, all right? No more poking.” Win helped Stonker button his trousers back up. “Ready for the day?'

“Ready!”

“Good that one of us is, because I'm not. Now let's get that white of yours touched up, it's all a mess again...”

 

After Win got his own food he lined up with Stonker, to make sure that Stonker got his fair share, and after they sat down he poured out some of his food into Stonker's bowl, to make sure that Stonker had enough. The portions for the children seemed on the small side, Win thought, and he could always augment with dried food bars if he was hungry. Remembering how much he had longed for hot meals when he was younger, Win always made certain that Stonker had more than enough at mealtime.

Many days had passed and still people looked at them askance when they sat down together to eat, instead of separated by their age and rank as all War Boys tended to be. But Win ignored the strange looks and pointed comments. These days Stonker was rarely out of sight; Win even slept with the child, in his nest of choice, and when they had first moved out of the children's nest, he had offered to fight anyone who contested it. A few silly Revheads had offered, but he had thrashed one to the point of embarrassment before his peers, so that the Revhead had to switch nests to save his dignity. It had set a precedent that Win could not be budged on this matter.

To reach the table, Stonker sat on his lap, feet dangling, chattering as he ate.

“Yes, that's very interesting, Tonky. Mmm-hmm, you dreamt about what again?” Win realized he hadn't been listening.

“Mum.” 

“Oh...did you say?”

“Mum.” Stonker said it louder and looked up at him.

Win could see her golden eyes.

“Tell me about her.” And Win said it as lightly as he could, as though he knew nothing of the subject. “What you remember.”

“Soft and warm. Tall and pretty. Hair...” Stonker's brows furrowed, and he gestured, not having the words for it, not in the lingua.

Braids and curls, Stonker signed. White dress veil wearing.

“Oh.” Win half-closed his eyes, Stonker's weight against his shoulder, and he could almost see her, half-turned away from him, looking back toward him.

It was the way she looked when they took her away.

Mother brush my hair, Stonker signed, and Win stopped himself from replying, hand tensed on the spoon. 

Want my hair, Stonker gestured, patted his smooth-shaven head, and Win managed a smile. He tightened his grip on Stonker.

“Me too. But we shouldn't talk about that. Some things we're not supposed to speak of, like the past.”

“No?”

“No. Not the past where we came from. It's not against the rules, but it's not polite. Other War Boys will not like it. Too many painful memories for some people. So let's not talk about this anymore, all right?”

“Okay,” Stonker's eyes grew troubled, confused, but Win didn't notice, caught up in his own pain.

Even though the bench was still, it was as though the world moved quickly around him, as it had always when he was a boy, the waste passing in grand majesty beyond the horizon and below his feet.

 

Yawning, carrying Stonker on his shoulders, Win left the mess hall, only to be stopped by an Organic.

“You're blocking my way, Farm Boy. What do you want?” Win asked, irritably.

“Pup's got a job assignment.”

“Oh, he certainly does. He's my right-hand man in my shop. Head screw counter, parts admiral, and supervising sergeant of sanitation,” Win said lightly. “Aren't you, Stonker?”

“Right hand man!” Stonker echoed, excitedly drumming the top of Win's head with his palms and Win grinned.

“Up top,” the Organic shot him a look of pure annoyance. “All pups work the farms unless they got special dispensation from the Imperator.”

“Oh, I have special dispensation. You might say I have an in on such things,” Win smile, baring his teeth unpleasantly. 

“Not today you don't. Got orders from above to take all the pups up to pick grain today,” the Organic replied. “Need all the little hands we can get for the harvest.”

“Oh really. Would like to see proof of the order,” Win said primly.

“Thought I'd have problems...” The Organic huffed a sigh. “Look, Mechanic, I'm just trying to do my job here. Cut me some slack, all right? Don't tell you how to do your job. Just tryin to round up all the brats to pick some millet, that's all. Any riper and we'll lose grain to the wind.”

“Sorry, it's nothing personal but I'm firm on this. Stonker stays with me.”

The Organic shook his head, before noticing a Half-life Noble leave the mess hall. Raising his voice, he called out, “Hey Mosa! Back me up here?”

Win rolled his eyes as the Half-life Noble strolled over.

“Send the pup up to the farms, Win,” Mosa said firmly. “Imperator's orders.”

“Talk to Moki; I've received permission--” 

“Not today. Go on, War Boy. Don't make this difficult.”

“Fine.”

 

The line of War Pups wavered as the children headed to the overseeing War Boy, and it was mostly consistent, but for one outlier of a War Boy toward the end of the line who loomed tall over the children.

“Here's a bucket. You two go over to that ledge, make sure you get all the millet picked off and put in the bucket. Stay away from the edge. Bucket, bucket...wait, what are you doing here? You ain't no Organic. Aren't you one of the drivers?”

“Just picking grains today. What of it?” Win said casually, shielding his eyes from the glaring sun. “Goodness, it's hot up here. How do you manage?”

“War Boy, this ain't no joking matter.” The overseeing War Boy put his hands on his hips, glaring at Win, unimpressed by his insolence. “What are you doing up here anyway? Mechanics aren't allowed up top.”

“Oh, I know. But I've been called to the work muster, along with my protege here, so here we are. Bucket, please?”

“Get out of here, you go back down to the warrens and stay off the farm.”

“Certainly.” Win offered Stonker his hand. “Shall we, Stonker? Let's get out of the sun, it's hot as blazes.”

“Leave the pup!”

“Afraid that's not possible. He works with me and I work with him. Where he goes, I go. That's just the way things are with us.”

“Don't you dare backchat me, Mechanic, I'm--”

“Lower ranked. Yes, I know. Seen where you stand in line. Not you specifically, mind, but you lot. So I'm telling you that I'm staying with my workmate here and that's that. If you have a complaint, take it up with the Imperator.”

 

“Sorry Imperator Acosta, don't mean to trouble you but--”

“You're from the War Farm.” Imperator Acosta looked up from his accounting book and slate, the Computer pausing in his murmuring calculations. “Tell me, what's interrupted work? Did someone go over the edge?”

The War Boy cringed and folded his hands into the V8, bowing his head before the Imperator. “No, Imperator. No losses of assets. It's just that... T-there's a Mechanic on the Farm, boss.”

“Oh? That's against the rules.”

“Yes, Imperator, we know. He knows too, but he won't leave.”

“Why is that?”

“He says he's there as a workmate of a War Pup, and that he won't leave without the pup. And he said to take it up with you.”

“Really. And not a Half-life Noble. He sounds like a bold scoundrel, to escalate it to the top of the line immediately without going through the normal channels. A bold or a foolish scoundrel.” Imperator Acosta's mouth closed in a line. He waved to the Computer, dismissing him, and the Computer left the shop with a sigh of relief. “You were right to bring this matter to me. Tell me what the War Boy looks like.”

“Bout nine hands and ten, bit of scruff--”

“I understand,” Acosta cut off the War Boy, who shrank slightly at the commanding gesture. “I'll deal with it. Send him to me.”

 

Win strode into the War Rig shop beaming with false cheer, holding Stonker with one hand and dabbing sweat off his brow with the other. As soon he saw Acosta, he saluted him with the V8, but not bothering to pocket his shop cloth first.

“Goodness, it's hot up there today. Usually one would think a day without wind would be a hoped for day, but it heats up the farm intolerably. Don't remember it being so hot when I was last up top, but then it has been some time since--”

“Ahem.” Imperator Acosta cleared his throat. “Why did I know it would be you? Exactly what do you think you're doing, Win?”

“Breaking the rules to suit myself, same as usual. Whatever punishment you deem fit, I'll take. But I'm not wavering on this.” Win gestured to Stonker. “He's with me now, and that's that.”

“I see.” Acosta steepled his fingers thoughtfully, shrewd eyes on Win. “Why?” 

“To protect him. From grown War Boys who have nothing better to do than prey on children.”

“Ah. That explains why you were in the children's nest for so long. But why not all the children?”

Win changed the subject. “Imperator, I won't have Stonker growing up unprotected. He needs a guardian.”

“I think you mean, you need peace of mind to assuage some guilt from the past.” Acosta's eyes ran over Win's face. “Isn't that what this is? A connection to the past somehow, someone you know that's being kept as a breeder. That's it, isn't it? I won't go into the details, but I remember the circumstances of your arrival.”

Win felt his expression waver, and he set his jaw, though it didn't stop the trembling of his entire body. “You'll have to-- That is, if you really must know, Imperator, nothing short of shredding will dissuade me from keeping Stonker by my side. Would prefer that it doesn't come to that, but that is how I stand.”

“Your opinion is noted.” Acosta frowned. “A talented War Boy like you could go far, high up the line, but for your attitude.”

“A lowly War Boy like me would prefer to stay out of the way,” Win replied. “Talent aside, this War Boy may not be fit for what the Imperator thinks he's fit for.”

“Win, you're the strangest combination of responsible and immediately shirking responsibility.” Acosta shook his head. “War Pup, step forward.”

Stonker glanced up at Win, and Win nodded to Stonker, his mouth tightening as he let the child's hand fall from his grip. 

As Stonker stepped forward hesitantly, Acosta gauged Win's expression.

Acosta gestured for Stonker to stop, and the child quickly returned to Win's side, taking his hand. “You know you've given me leverage,” Acosta said mildly. “A powerful weapon at my disposal. From now on, I can control you through means of this pup.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You don't mind, do you?”

Win paused, before speaking slowly and carefully. “Not if it means I get to keep Stonker safe,” Win said, swallowing the anger bitterly, the shame of being caught out in his own feelings, the shame of knowing that he had handed the means of control to the Imperator as easily as if he were lending the Imperator a screwdriver.

“A War Boy's instincts, gambling on the trajectory of the enemy cars, knowing when to take a small shunt in order to lure the enemy in for a killing blow. I'm almost proud of you, Win. You have good instincts about when to fang it and when to hold back.”

“It doesn't extend further than the car, Imperator.”

“Your modesty is duly noted. Win, I'm allowing it, on the condition that your behavior improves. No more of this running around unshaven, no more causing trouble. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Imperator.”

“You will be the very model of an obedient, loyal War Boy. Otherwise I can take him away any time I wish, and separate the two of you. Permanently if it has to be the case. War Pups belong to the War Tower, and the assets of the War Tower are my responsibility. Do you understand?”

Win stared at the ground. “Yes, Imperator.”

“Good, then we have an understanding. Get back to the shop and stay away from the farms. And take your shop pup with you.”

“Yes, Imperator.” Win caught up Stonker in his arms and ducked out, shaking with fury.

*****

The order came at supper; plans had been finalized so tomorrow they would go raiding.

“What's 'ray ding'?” Stonker asked, as they walked through the warren to the nest, hand in hand. It was still early. Most of the War Boys were still lingering over their meals, but Win knew that Stonker was tired; it had been a long day of work.

“Raiding. We're going to war.”

“War boys! War boys going ta war!” Stonker said, excited, connecting the ideas and Win smiled sadly. 

“Certainly that's what we are and that's what we're made for,” Win said. “Raids are part of war. Long drives to Bartertown...well, it's not war per se, but we do war along the way. In fact, you could say we do war anytime we're out on the waste, whether it's for practice or for true.”

“War boys, war boys, war boys!” Stonker laughed, repeating the words. 

They stopped at the door of the nest, and Win took off his boots, setting them carefully along the wall. They didn't make shoes small enough for children like Stonker, Win thought, and he carefully checked the soles of Stonker's feet to make certain they were not cut or injured, but the boy had tough calloused soles from a childhood of running about the stone-cut hallways of the warrens.

“Story, story, story, I want a story!” Stonker chirped in a sing-song voice.

“And normally you'd get a story. But right now we have to talk,” Win found their usual place in the nest, along the wall away from the others. He sat down and gestured for Stonker to sit with him, the sand cool beneath his bare feet.

Stonker clambered into his lap, a tangle of sharp knees and elbows, and Win laughed silently to himself as Stonker got himself settled.

“Goodness, child, you have more angles on you than a protractor.”

Stonker took his hand, drawing letters on his palm before Win closed his hand gently

“Settle down. This is serious. I want you to listen close to what I have to tell.”

Quickly, Stonker stilled in his lap.

“Listen, Tonky. I haven't had to go anywhere since you first came. We've been lucky so far; not even a Bartertown run. But tomorrow I have to go to war. I might not come back.”

Stonker's little fingernails suddenly dug into his arm, and Win sighed.

“No. No! Win has to come back! Come back! Don't go, don't go!” Stonker tightened his grip and Win winced.

“Okay, okay. Ouch, gentle there...we should cut your nails. Goodness, I hadn't thought of that. Here, sit like...ow, like this.” Win settled Stonker down and took his hand. The child's hand was tiny, so tiny, and the nails were long and grubby, such that Win was embarrassed to have neglected them.

“Here, don't move. Deep breaths, no squirming. Let me clean you up.” Win found a small delicate file among his tools, and began to carefully file down the sharp little nails. “Be quiet and listen. I must go to war and go to Bartertown sometimes. That's going to happen; it's my job and I can't get away from it. My responsibility. You understand responsibility. We do it to keep everyone safe, and so that we have the supplies we need to get through another season of defending the Citadel. But I'll always come back to you, when I can. It's just that sometimes...bad things happen and people die.”

“Die?”

“I've heard some people say that it's when Mister Dead comes and jumps...um, no that's not a good way to put it. It's...that is... Tonky, dying is when someone goes away forever, to a place where they can't be brought back.” At the look of distress on Stonker's face, at the threat of impending tears, Win found himself parroting the words of the common faith. “They go to Valhalla, where they feast with the heroes of all times.”

“Feast?”

“Some people say feast, some people say McFeast. Well, I don't know which one's right, but I hadn't heard the latter until I came here, so I say the other. That means to eat and drink plenty, in a place where there's no pain and no suffering, no sadness and no grief, and the food and water is good and never bitter, where it never runs out or goes sour.”

“I want to go there. I want to go to Valhalla,” Stonker said, and Win marveled at the innocence of those words.

“Me too, but not anytime soon. When we die...the life runs out of the body and that's it. No more friends or family. No more meals. No more water. Just nothingness and a long deep sleep from which we never awaken.”

Puzzled by the contradiction, Stonker said nothing but moved closer, nervously, as Win filed down his fingernails one at a time.

“I don't understand,” he said finally.

“I don't either,” Win said plainly. “Tonky, if I knew I would tell you. But it's complicated, a great mystery where no two tales are the same. Just know that I'll fight like mad to come back to you, but if I can't...you stay close to the other children. Disappear among them, stay out of trouble. And keep living, for both our sakes. Me and...your mum. Understand?”

Stonker shook his head, but there was no more to be done, no more to be said. There was nothing that could be done, Win realized, other than to make certain he won every fight and won them decisively so he could return Stonker's side. There could be no mistakes, no failures.

Acosta was right; Stonker was a powerful weapon in the Imperator's hand.

“Tomorrow when we go to war, you can't be sad or scared. No crying, all right? Warriors have to be seen off with brave shouts and cheers, because it's bad luck if you're sad. We're all on our way to Valhalla, so that's something to be happy about. Time enough to cry if someone doesn't come back, but no crying ahead of time. Promise me that tomorrow you'll be brave and shout the V8 for me when we go to war, all right?”

“Okay. Promise.”

“Since you've already been so good at being brave, let me tell you a story. Lie down and get comfortable. Here's the blanket, make sure your liver's covered. Once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away...”

 

In the night, Stonker woke crying, and drowsily, Win drew him close. It happened with less and less frequency now, but Win kept the clean shop cloth handy anyway, to dry his tears. At least now Stonker cried silently, without the screaming and the tantrums, calling out for his mother, as he did often in those early days.

In the bone bleached moonlit world of night, Win drew Stonker close and stroked his forehead, murmuring nonsense, dabbing off the hot tears and snot that stained the black cloth even blacker.

“It's okay,” he whispered, until the child fell back asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please make sure to check updated tags for warnings.

Out on the waste, the bloodbag struggled. From a distance, through the distorted and grainy lens it looked as though he was trying to dig out his broken down vehicle from the sand, but the War Boys knew better; he was trying to unchain his ankle from the frame of the car.

The sun shone cold through the heavy gray clouds, and the wind kicked up, stirring the sand, briefly obscuring the bloodbag with a fine veil of ochre.

Peering over the crest of the hill, Acosta gave the bloodbag a final glance through the binoculars, before turning his attention to the waste.

“Any sign?”

“Not yet.” Beside him, Ace scanned the horizon, his eyes obscured by the smoked lenses of his goggles. “Daily said they got a nest somewhere near here.”

“Every season, they expand a little further,” Acosta said. “One wonders what they subsist on.”

“Dunno what grows without sunlight,” Ace shrugged.

“Dust!” A Polecat shouted from high above on his perch, auxiliary troops borrowed from Gastown. “Vehicles from the north! They're coming out!”

“Patrol 2! Wait 30 seconds,” Acosta raised his voice, sliding down from the top of the hill in a scatter of pebbles and dirt. He strode over to his vehicle quickly, giving orders as he walked. “30 seconds, and intercept. We can't let their cars get back to protect their den. Patrol 1, we're hitting the den.”

“Aye, Imperator!”

“Witness!”

“Ride high and ride chrome or don't come home!” A War Boy shouted, and a moment later the group of vehicles tore off into the waste following the Imperator's ute.

Win leaned out the open window and watched as Patrol 1 backtracked, circling around to come at the Buzzard's nest from the north. He readjusted his dustwrap, comforted by the warmth and humidity of recycled breaths beneath the black cloth and pulled on his goggles.

Win counted the long count, until Moki signaled the attack. He hit the throttle, feeling the car open up beneath him as he shifted into higher gear.

 

Teeth gritted, the car rode rough beneath him, the suspension bouncing hard as they went over the hilly terrain, fighting to beat the Buzzards to the bloodbag and Win tightened his grip on the wheel, slicing through dust as he counted seconds, catching up to the Buzzard vehicle.

The cries of the bloodbag were loud, plaintive, and he could not help but feel a twinge of pity; this one had been used up, too weak to be of any more value, and so they had taken it for bait, but even a half-dead bloodbag knew what the Buzzards meant.

Win knew that all too well.

He slammed around the bait vehicle, cutting it close, sliding through the thin veneer of sand in counterpoint. They had chosen their trap well, a hard-packed bit of ground, long and level for the most part if rough, hidden from the Buzzard's view from a distance, and during the hottest, brightest part of the day, a patrol had driven over in the junker, scattering enough sand to make it look as if the car was sand-bogged, and hiked back to a rendezvous point to cover their tracks.

The timing was precise; Win pulled up beside the masked Buzzard in its vehicle.

It seemed as if they made eye contact, though Win could not see past the dark reflective goggles that caught the low afternoon light.

Things felt as though they were moving slowly, and Win felt the excitement of it, where every heartbeat could be counted as the penultimate beat, every breath uncertain to followed by another.

The Buzzard raised his piece, but Win was a fraction of a second faster; his left hand came up reflexively and the resounding thunder of his handgun set his ears ringing.

The Buzzard car veered off, stumbling on its feet as its driver lost control, but instead of crashing, it ground to a weak and hesitant halt.

Sometimes that was a ruse, and sometimes it meant they were done. Win wasn't sure of which one it was, but since he had fired the shots, he had the responsibility of checking.

He idled the engine, setting the handbrake. They were done now; that was the last of the Buzzards and already, the other drivers were getting out of their cars to check their loot, to finish off any survivors and capture the vehicles.

Over the sound of the crying bloodbag, he could already hear the hauler, chugging through the waste from the rendezvous point to pick up the crippled and maimed vehicles.

Three shots left, but Win reloaded anyway, his pocket heavy with bullets.

“Someone mind getting the bloodbag?” he called, and there was laughter.

“What, are you out of bullets?” Laughter, and Win's eyes narrowed.

“Still cleaning up,” Win gestured with his gun toward the idling Buzzard car. “Mind taking care of the bloodbag? It's distracting.”

“Oh sure,” another driver said, and walked over to the bait vehicle, before casually putting a bullet in the bloodbag's head.

Win winced at the sound of gunfire, and the other driver laughed. “Made you flinch!”

“Sure did...” Win raised his handgun and walked slowly to the Buzzard car.

 

Win scanned the interior of the cab as he walked closer. It was empty, but for the Buzzard he had seen, and Win felt sure that the Buzzard had been the only one in the cab. 

So he stepped forward, boldly. 

Keeping his gun pointed on the Buzzard, he opened the door with a quick motion. 

The Buzzard tumbled out of the cab with a thump, landing in the dust. Blood oozed slowly out of the wounds in his throat and head. 

Win sighed, leaning in briefly to shut off the engine and set the brake. He stood back, and moment later, out of sheer curiosity, he pulled off the Buzzard's mask.

Brown eyes. He flinched; it was a young man, a boy really, not much younger than himself, and it was dead, extremely dead. The eyes were fixed in the skull, unblinking, and the face seemed stern, expression fixed in a grimace of pain.

Unlike older Buzzards, it hadn't yet grown the suppurating wounds and lesions, the odorous abscesses. Its skin was unblemished.

In fact, Win thought, as he examined the body, it was merely human.

*****

Orders were clear; Patrol 2 joined Patrol 1 soon afterwards.

The hard part of the work was already done. Win could tell because the Imperator himself was already out of the Buzzard's nest, sitting on the dented roof of a wreck of a vehicle, its paint scoured off by the passage of time and sand, a hulking rusted heap. 

Acosta took a sip of water from his canteen, his arms and chest splattered bright with blood that was not his own.

Win pulled his car up alongside the other cars, facing outward, ready to drive. Around the temporary encampment of vehicles, War Boys with shotguns and rifles strolled around casually, keeping an eye on the goods.

By the time Win got out of his car, Moki was already debriefing the Imperator. With the other drivers, Win strode up to hear the new orders, though he was disappointed that they had missed the fighting; killing and capturing a Buzzard vehicle intact was prestigious, but it meant that he had only killed one of those flesh-eating ferals.

“No trouble at the trap, I assume? I see everyone is accounted for,” Acosta said to Moki.

“No trouble, boss. We cleaned up the bloodbag and Mosa got the captured vehicles loaded onto the hauler. He's already driving the trap back to the Citadel. Bloodbag's going to the Wretched once we get back.”

“Excellent work. We're cleaning up here. Moki, you and Win go help bring the new assets out of the nest,” Acosta said, glancing briefly up at the Polecat who was perched up as lookout. The Polecat didn't notice, scanning the horizon for signs of trouble.

“Yes, Imperator.” Win holstered his handgun, and went to back to his car to dig out the toolbox, pulling out lengths of fine chain and locking metal fetters, which he hooked onto his belt, careful not to tangle the chains. 

“Entry's through the boot. False door,” Imperator Acosta said. “Rather clever business. Use your dustwrap, Moki; it stinks terribly down there.”

“Yes, Imperator.” Moki pulled up his dustwrap and gestured to the others.

 

Win climbed down the wobbling ladder made from chain and irregular lengths of metal rods. Already, the War Boys above were setting up a block and tackle to pull up the booty.

Road flares had been left at regular intervals in the stone-carved passage, painting everything with a sickly red glow. Boxes and boxes lined the walls; War Boys were already hauling them out, carrying them one by one and stacking them by the entry too be lifted out of the nest. 

Through the dustwrap, he could smell the animal scent of filth, and he gagged a little; even on the farms that stuff had been cooked and sterilized, and waste in the lavatories was quickly piped away, but here the reek of it hit him and he doubled his dustwrap over his nose.

“Ace? How far does it go?” Win's voice was muffled through the cloth.

“Not too deep, maybe three or four more rooms connected by tunnels. Looks like a new nest. Heard tell the real nests are big, way bigger 'n this.”

“What's that smell?”

“Methane farm,” Ace replied, pointing to the ceiling. “See the lights?”

Win looked up. Faint strips of red lights dotted the ceilings and the walls at odd intervals, and he wondered if it was some sort of code.

“Whole place is powered by methane farming. All right, get going. Take the lamp; we got enough light here to work by. There are some breeders and pups to process in the next room. Make sure you be careful and don't hurt them. We should be ready for them soon, give us ten to get the block 'n tackle set up.”

“Yes, Ace,” Win replied.

 

Win walked slowly, cautiously, lantern in hand, though he kept it shuttered as the hissing flares gave off more than enough light to go by. He was glad they had rooted out a nest; Buzzards bred like flies and if he could rid the world of a few more, he could count himself happy.

All over the walls were carvings, incoherent squiggles of writing, weird letters that he mostly didn't recognize, jagged and grotesque, as malformed as the Buzzards were.

The ground was splattered with pooling blood, wetting the dust into a sticky mud, and the copper scent of blood warred with the scent of filth, each overpowering in turn. Dead Buzzards littered the floor, their bodies seemingly tumbled over in sleep, as if they had suddenly fallen where they stood. 

Win noticed they were unarmed, with wounds in their hands and arms, where they had tried to cover themselves against the hail of gunfire. 

Moki kicked a lax hand out of the way; it could have tripped someone walking, the way it lay.

Messy, he signed to Win.

Filthy, Win signed back, glancing around as they paused before the entry of the room where the women and children had been corralled.

Win could hear their sobs in the darkness, could see the little specks of red light that denoted them Buzzards in the dark.

He scowled; the sound of the crying children reminded him of Stonker.

There was an easy way to subdue Buzzards when they had the benefit of darkness; a bright light could buy them valuable seconds.

Ready, Moki signaled.

Ready. 

Win unshuttered the lantern as he stepped forward, and the Buzzards recoiled from the light. He kept the lantern held up, pointed at eye level, so that no one got any clever ideas about fighting back.

Moki began to chain the Buzzards, starting with the women and the older children. They cried to each other in a lingua that could not be understood, and Win wondered what kind of animalistic tongue it was, that these rude harsh noises could even be language.

Sobs and screaming, even chained they tried reaching for each other, and Win looked away.

“War Boys!” And Win startled, hearing Ace's harsh voice echo through the underground complex. “New orders! Retreat! Retreat! Nothin worth taking. Leave everything! Get out now!”

“Did he really mean nothing?” Win looked at the children, squirming babies torn from their mothers' milk-damp breasts, young boys and girls shackled hand to foot, wailing with fear. 

“Orders said nothing,” Moki said, puzzled, but then his eyes grew serious with understanding. “Wait. That must mean the crackling dust...!”

“Oh, goodness!” Win fumbled his lantern, nearly dropping it as he and Moki backed out of the room in a panic, and it returned to darkness, but for the tiny dots of red light that floated ominously in the darkness, Buzzard sign.

They ran down the main corridor, nearly tripping over the dead, and clambered up the wobbly narrow metal ladder and out through the boot, pulling off their dustwraps to gasp in the clean air above.

Ace and the others were already up top, muttering over the contents of a box that had been lifted up out of the Buzzard's nest. Perched near the edge of the entry, it was made from heavy ancient paper, disintegrating from age and wear.

“Food, from Before, sealed for ages from a time past count. Tins of water, tins of food...” Acosta gestured. “We should have checked first before sending anyone down there. Next time we raid a nest, that's what needs to happen first; a check for radioactivity.”

War Boys nodded around him, murmuring their agreement.

“How bad is it, Acosta?” Ace asked, curious.

“Just look,” Imperator Acosta said, waving the heavy wand of the counter over it. The static crackling burst high, then higher and higher, running louder and hotter than nearly anything Win had ever witnessed.

Everyone took an involuntary step back.

“They must have dug into a cache from Before, and have been sustaining themselves with this provender and the fresh meat of whoever they catch,” Acosta shook his head, and gave the box a shove with his boot, tipping it back into the nest where it fell with a heavy thud.

“What should we do?” Ace asked.

“I'd say burn it, but I'd be concerned about the fallout from the smoke and ashes. No, the only thing we can do is seal up this nest so that it can't be used again.”

“What about the women and children inside?” Moki asked and Win thought it was lucky that he didn't have to ask himself; he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

“What about them?” Acosta asked. “Take down the block and tackle. Dynamite the entrance. Make certain that nothing can enter or leave this place ever again. Last thing we need is more Buzzards getting into that big cache of food and fresh meat down there.” 

*****

No one was allowed up to the Citadel until they were decontaminated, a stricter measure than the usual decontamination procedure coming out of the waste. The Wretched crowded around as close as they dared, excited, scooping up dribbles of muddy wastewater that leached off the tired, dusty War Boys.

Cold and shivering, Win went up the lift with his car where he was bundled off to the wastewater catchment to further decontaminate.

No one was allowed near them until they had cleaned up, and even then fresh water had been sent in a large quantity to allow for a final hosing down.

By the end of it, Win was ice cold and exhausted. An Organic came by and toweled him off with a rough cloth, and gave him a new pair of trousers and a new pair of boots; everything he wore, along with his tools, had been taken away for decontamination.

A War Pup brought him a hot cup of orange peel brew, and he drank it gratefully.

At supper, they sat apart, everyone feeling awkward without their white; decontamination took so long that it had cut into mealtime and no one had time to properly dress. But it didn't matter; no one wanted to sit next to anyone who had been so close to such high doses of radiation.

Win listened idly to the theories about the Buzzard's cache, and his expression fixed when they mentioned Trader caravans, transporting goods from one side of the waste to the other.

“Probably dug it out from one of the Immorta-touched cities. Lotta good loot there if you're not afraid of radiation,” Ace reasoned, and the others around him nodded agreement.

“It stands to reason that Buzzards probably stole it from Traders," Acosta said. "Nothing out here is nearly that hot and we certainly can't patrol every corner of this region.”

“Only thing is that it was a lot...more 'n I've ever seen. Don't think Traders carry quite so much; it's expensive on fuel.”

“Good point.”

Win stared at his supper, and wondered if he could ever eat again.

But then, breaking protocol, Stonker came with his bowl of food and squeezed in between him and Moki.

Win put his arm around Stonker and drew him close, setting the child on his lap so that Stonker could reach the table to eat.

“Tonky...you shouldn't be here.” Win whispered, rested his cheek briefly against Stonker's head as the child ate his meal, eating the mush with gusto. “Really. You ought to go.”

“Win came back,” Stonker said happily, and turned to him with her golden eyes, forgiving him even as he could not forgive himself.

“Yes, yes, of course. Win will always come back for Stonker, promise.” Win closed his eyes briefly, and in the darkness behind his eyelids, he could see the tiny glowing red lights, could hear the screams that tore through the night, and he shivered even though Stonker was warm in his arms.


	14. Part III: Win and Coil

**Over 2500 days later...**

 

“Hey, that's a nice chassis there, War Boy.” The Blackthumb ran the tip of his finger along the curve of the young Revhead's brand, making the youth flinch. “What say you and me go visit a shop sometime after full dark?” He said it softly, trying to make it so that the shop's Driver didn't hear over the quiet hum of work, but Win heard anyway; the movement had caught his attention.

The young Revhead looked up; his eyes were blue and clear, and his mouth pursed slightly with displeasure, disturbed by the Blackthumb's words. There was no fear in his eyes as he faced the higher-ranked Blackthumb, but a cold fierceness that belied his age.

“No.”

“Come on, I know all sorts of places we could visit, just the two of us alone and I could train you better...don't you want a higher rank in the line? Could pull some strings for you, if we got to know each other better.”

“No. Leave me alone, I'm working.” This time louder and more firmly.

“Come on, don't be rusty. Just trying to help you out, that's all. You're being ungrateful.”

Just as Win was about to intervene, the Revhead stood up. There was something very proud and dignified in his bearing, and Win found himself impressed.

Speaking clearly and slowly as though he were addressing the shop and not the Blackthumb, the young Revhead gave some excuse and immediately left the shop without permission, though there were hours to go before the end of the work day.

Surprised, Win finished what he was doing and set down his tools. 

He walked over to the Blackthumb, sizing him up. While he'd miss this particular Blackthumb's expertise, there were at least two others who could do the same job within tolerances.

“What did you just say to that boy?”

“Nothing, nothing, boss. He's just touchy, that's all. Prideful lot these Citadel-born babes, no respect for those of us who been workin hard since before they were born. Just wanted to show him a good time, that's all. Give him some extra training that only a grown War Boy could give him, if you know what I mean.”

“He's barely out of his puppy teeth, what were you thinking? He hasn't even grown his beard!”

“Eh, old enough to work with tools is old enough to work any kind of tool I got,” the Blackthumb joked, and around him, some of the other crew chuckled, amused by the joke.

Win felt his hands curl up into fists, and then heard a clink beside him. Some of the heat of his blood cooled as he looked to his right and saw Stonker sitting on a loose tire, paused in counting screws, the child's eyes wide, recognizing what was about to happen.

In the old days, ages before Stonker came into his life, he would have started the fight, right there, without hesitation, but he knew Stonker's eyes were on him. That was the problem with children, Win thought, was that he had to constantly think about Stonker having eyes on. And as Win had heard Moki say a thousand, thousand times, Win had to set a good example, lest the poor child grow up as stunted and cruel as he was.

“As though you have so much to work with,” Win said, voice dripping icy contempt, “because I heard round the shops that yours is barely bigger than a thimble and couldn't spear a peapod without assistance.” 

The Revheads in the shop bawled laughter. When the Blackthumb swung at him, enraged, Win grinned and set his fists to the task with pleasure, knowing that even though the Blackthumb was bigger, was heavier, he was faster and could easily beat the Blackthumb to the ground by sheer determination.

That was the first time Coil caught his attention.

*****

“There's a new trainer, Win.” Moki said, finally finding Win up in his favorite perch high above the central shop. He sat down beside Win, the weight of his body giving the metal ramp a shiver. Win had his chin resting in his hands, watching a handful of War Pups below at play.

“Oh, fascinating,” Win said absently.

“Acosta appointed one of the senior War Boys to the job.”

“How interesting. Do go on.” Win's eyes followed Stonker as the child ran about the empty floor of the central shop with the other War Pups, laughing.

“He's taking promising pups at least 3000 days old to be trained as Lancers. They'll get better shop jobs and get fast-tracked through the Revhead system.”

“Well, that sounds just lovely.”

Moki frowned to himself. Either Win was not listening, or if he was, he was feigning boredom to show his contempt.

“Win, this is important. Pay attention.”

Listening, Win signed dismissively, and Moki felt it in his gut. It was rare, so very rare these days that Win would communicate with him in Trader, the language of hands and fingers. 

Though it made Moki pause, he was undeterred: “We all think that you ought to send Stonker to formal training. It's not right that you keep him at your side like this. Sure, maybe it was funny when he was little and you kept him beside you to do all the small jobs instead of letting him work the farms. In a thousand days he'll be old enough to be a Revhead and then what? You're going to keep him shopbound forever?”

“Why not?” Win turned to meet Moki's eye. “It's safer that way for him. He shouldn't have to do the work of the road, fighting Bandits over scraps or tangling with the Buzzards, surrounded by a bunch of half-trained hooligans with explosive-tipped spears. That's rubbish work for people like us, the growned-ups. He's just a child.”

“But is that what he wants? You know he won't be a child forever.”

Below, the children were playing at Botany Bay, imitating Drivers and Lancers. Stonker had a smaller child on his shoulders; he towered over the other children, almost as tall as a son of the Immortan himself.

Her work, Win thought, looking down at Stonker's slim shoulders. Her work in entirety.

“Because I don't think that's what he wants,” Moki continued. “Talked to him myself and he wants to be like you when he grows up. I'm sure he's said the same to you.”

“It's obvious that he doesn't know what he's talking about, if he wants to grow up to be a person like me,” Win said primly and casually got up on his feet, leaving the upper walk, but in his tenor of his footsteps Moki could sense latent anger, even though Win controlled it better these days.

 

“Win! Need a word with you.” Ace waved Win over as he crossed the central shop, and trudgingly, Win made his way over to the higher-ranked War Boy's side.

“Yes?” Win asked politely, coolly.

Ace's eyes were hard, challenging. “Acosta's promoted a new trainer. He's taking War Pups, starting at around three thousand days. They're to train as future Lancers, ”

“Fascinating.”

“This involves you, you know.” 

“Does it?” Win said lightly, feigning ignorance.

Ace's mouth closed, eyes narrowed briefly in irritation. “Send Stonker to training.”

“Moki's already briefed me. Certainly that sounds like a good idea, but I have my concerns--”

“Orders from Acosta,” Ace said, the words falling like blows of a hammer. “You do as you're told.”

“What if I don't?” Win said pleasantly, though he could feel his jaw clench.

“This ain't something you can fight, Win. You just don't got a choice in the matter,” Ace said firmly but reasonably. “Stonker don't belong to you, no matter what you think. He ain't your pet pup. Everyone's indulged your odd fancy for long enough. War Tower owns him and that's that.”

“Well. What a way to say it.” Win could feel himself breathing hard, and his fingers twitched, ready to fight. But he knew that Ace could crush him to the ground without a second thought, and besides, it wasn't Ace's fault; he was like everyone else, just following orders. “Orders are orders then.” Win managed a smile, all teeth and no amusement.

“That's good of you to let it go without a fight. You know Mosa, he's a good War Boy, steady and patient. He'll be good for all the pups, make sure that they're raised up right.”

“You don't say,” Win said mildly, before striding off as fast as he could into the winding hallways of the warren.

*****

Stonker found Win at supper and joined him at the table for the Drivers as was their custom, and Win glared at the others, daring them to contradict him.

No one bothered them; it was taken as given that Stonker would eat with Win. Pleased, Win gave Stonker a little squeeze as he sat down.

“Well now, little one. What have you been doing today without me?”

Immediately, Stonker spoke excitedly, briefly forgetting his food; they had trained with guns today, real guns but unloaded of course, and he was learning how to clean the barrel, how to properly take it apart and put it back together, and how some of his cohort already knew how to handle a firearm, but Stonker would work hard and practice to get better and catch up...

Win listened half-heartedly, nodding, glad that he had his back to the Half-life Nobles, lest he glare too much.

“...and tomorrow, we're starting training on the car! They're taking us down to the waste to practice on--”

“The waste?” Win's eyebrows went up. “They're taking you and the other pups down?”

“Sure, to the practice field. We're gonna get on a car and be like real Lancers! Gonna be so chrome. Win, you think Mosa would let me drive? I'm tall enough to hit the pedals.”

“Excuse me, Stonker” Win said mildly. “Why don't you have the rest of my supper? Will be back shortly.” Win shoved the half-eaten bowl of mush toward the boy, and stood up.

He took a deep breath; the words were already boiling angry in the cauldron of his belly, and he wondered if he could win a fight against Mosa.

 

“...in broad daylight, safe between Bulletfarm and--”

“Absolutely intolerable!” Win interrupted, feeling the volume of his voice raising, and then took a breath, trying to control himself, trying to not make a scene before the entirety of the supper hall. “It is unacceptable that you take the children – the assets – out into the wilderness. Who's going to protect them? Don't care that that practice field is between the two settlements; there have been Buzzard incursions in that area in the last thirty! They still come running along the Immortan's Road sometimes! Buzzards don't care if it's day or night, it's all the same to them if they can get fed!”

“Win, this is ridiculous. The pups will be fine, we'll bring a rifle and a gun-mounted patrol car...” Mosa shrugged him off, turning to walk back to his bowl of mush, but Win stopped him.

“No, you listen to me,” Win caught Mosa by the elbow, pulling him back. As he did so, he noticed that their talk had not gone unnoticed; Ace was coming around.

“Something the matter?” Ace looked at Win, and Win scowled, hating that it was expected that he would be the instigator. Though that was normally a fair assessment, today was different.

“No, we're all done here,” Mosa said but Win spoke at the same time, speaking over Mosa.

“Yes, something is the matter,” Win gazed levelly at Ace. Here at least was someone who was mostly non-partisan, Win thought, with no particular loyalty to any specific War Boy other than the War Rig Imperator, and was not a best mate nor a close friend of Mosa's.

Ace looked curious, and gestured for Win to speak.

“I wholly disagree with the methods of training the children,” Win said, and readily bore the brunt of the glaring looks from both Half-life Nobles at the shocking, almost disrespectful manner of speech.

“He's being ridiculous,” Mosa said.

“No, I don't think that the children should face live training,” Win said, and suddenly realized that his words could be interpreted as wanting to keep the War Pups soft and protected, specifically Stonker, so improvising, Win spoke deliberately, giving himself time to think and set each word down carefully, one after another. “That is, I don't think they should face live training so soon. Maybe a grown War Boy could hold onto a moving vehicle without falling, but! It stands to reason that they should practice on something...something stationary first. In case of falls. Yes, after all, a broken bone could cripple them for life; they're too little and not strong enough yet to be clinging to the side of a moving car.”

Ace and Mosa gave each other a thoughtful look.

“Stands to reason. Maybe we should do your outdoor trainin another day, Mosa. Saves us on sendin patrol cars out with you. No point in wastin guzzoline if we don't have to.”

Mosa nodded; he was a reasonable War Boy, and not too proud to discount a better idea when he heard one. “Seems like a good idea. We could probably pull something from the junker shop; didn't we catch a new car just the other day? Mostly frame and no engine?”

“Yeah, could probably scavenge something from the junk shop to practice on,” Ace said, before turning to Win. “Good idea. We didn't even go ridin to Bartertown til I was more 'n a thousand days older than the oldest of 'em pups. You keep this up, Win, maybe you'll get promoted someday,” Ace gave Win a friendly pat to the shoulder.

Win kept his expression carefully controlled until he was safely away.

*****

“You didn't fight the Half-life Nobles, did you, Win?” Stonker asked, hand clasped in Win's as they walked the winding hallways of the middle warren.

“No. Yes. Well, not physically,” Win said, meeting the boy's eyes. Less than four thousand days, but Stonker was already nearly as tall as his shoulder. “Not all fights are fought with one's fists.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, just argued them to keep the training in the Citadel,” Win said lightly. “Ace thought it sensible, so it'll all work out.”

“So we don't get to practice with a car?” Stonker's face fell, and Win felt a twinge of guilt even though he knew he was in the right to protect Stonker.

“Of course you'll get to practice with a car. Just not a moving one, not yet. You're too little.”

“I'm as tall as any Revhead,” Stonker said, and Win gave his hand a squeeze.

“Maybe the smallest, shopbound boys that don't ride yet. Just let it go, Tonky. Accept that sometimes growned-ups know better.”

“When I'm a growned up War Boy, I want to be a Lancer so I can ride with you,” Stonker let go of his hand, pantomiming the shooting of a pistol. “Bang, bang! We'll kill so many Buzzards on the Fury Road!”

“It's not their fault,” Win said, though it cost him to say it, and briefly, he could hear the lingering screams of the dying in his memories, choked with agony, almost everyone he loved slaughtered in one tortured, bullet-riddled night. The insectile red glow of their lights in the unnatural darkness underground. “They want to survive too. Just like us. Only...only their methods are different.”

“But I thought they killed our people,” Stonker said suddenly.

“Who told you that?” Win's breath caught; he had said nothing yet to Stonker about Kier, about their families, about that night, that fateful run so many years ago that changed all their lives.

“Everyone knows Buzzards kill War Boys dead.”

“Oh yes. Our people.” Win managed something of a smile, to show Stonker that he was all right. “Certainly they're dangerous.”

“That's why I want to be your Lancer,” Stonker ran down the hall toward the nest, fighting imaginary foes as his boots clomped down the dim-lit corridor. “Gonna kill the Buzzards and save our people!”

 

Win paused in the doorway of the children's nest, watching Stonker get settled down with the other children. In the past, Win would tell the child stories to help him sleep, spinning out long tales from Before, tales of dreamers who pricked their fingers on ensorcelled needles, tales of lonely men following a distant green light across the far waste with wistful eyes, ancient tales from beyond the stars where men and women fought for justice and goodness against their powerful oppressors with bright shining swords.

But now, things were changing and he wasn't even allowed to tuck the child in.

Win looked at Stonker; he was already taller than any of the other children in the nest, and there was a strange, aching moment when Win realized that as always, Moki was right; there was no stopping the progression of time and that golden-eyed child that he had held in his arms, unknowing and innocent, was soon going to grow up and leave him behind.


	15. Chapter 15

After Win made certain that Stonker was asleep, he headed to the shop, having left his water bottle in the car and wanting a drink before bedtime. At least that's what he told himself. Certainly it was not because of the restless pain that wormed through his core.

But as Win considered it, he realized that the thought of facing the nest alone was bitter. Ages ago when Stonker was still a small child, Win thought he would look forward to the day that Stonker could sleep without him, so he could go back to the cool and comfortable life of sleeping alone, but now faced with the reality of it and faced with it so suddenly, he realized it was intolerable.

At least he had Stonker with him for shop and at at mealtime, Win thought, trying to placate his own feelings. It was going to be a parched day in Valhalla before he'd willingly give that up. 

Full of dark thoughts, Win nearly tripped over the Revhead's feet as he made his way around the car.

“Oh, goodness!” Win stumbled, but caught himself on the frame of the car. Looking down, a pair of boots stuck out from under the car.

“Ow,” a voice spoke from underneath the car, and momentarily, the boots gave a kick and the young Revhead slid out from under the hood, the creeper at his back.

“Sorry.” Win offered the Revhead his hand; it was the same blue-eyed boy from earlier in the day, the one who had dismissed himself before the shop was closed. “Are you all right?” Win hauled the boy up onto his feet.

“Yeah. Sorry, boss. Didn't mean to surprise you,” the Revhead's fingers twitched from nervousness, and Win could not help but smile.

“What are you doing here? It's late. Shouldn't you be sleeping?”

“Um.” The Revhead looked down at his boots. “Sorry about earlier. Thought I'd come to make up the hours. Almost done.”

Win tilted his head briefly; figuring the Revhead's missing hours when the shop was open, that meant that the Revhead had been here since before supper.

“You missed supper, didn't you?”

“Uh.” The Revhead looked uneasy, and he balled his hands into fists to hide the tremor in his hands. 

“Ah, you are too responsible.” Win patted the youth's shoulder. “Here, for the work.” He pulled out two food bars, and gave it to the boy, whose blue eyes lit up with wonder.

“T-thank you, boss!”

 

They sat on the floor, their backs against the chassis, and Win offered the Revhead a drink from his bottle before taking a sip himself.

“Thanks, boss,” the Revhead ate hungrily, a clean shopcloth spread over his lap to catch the crumbs, which he licked off the black fabric.

“You're welcome,” Win said, and suddenly he realized he was hungry too, having eaten barely half of his own meal. He took out a bar for himself, and seeing the Revhead's hungry eyes on it, broke it in two over the Revhead's lap, letting the crumbs fall to the shopcloth.

“Here, please have the other half. This is merely a snack before bedtime for me,” Win said lightly.

“No, no really, this is already a lot,” the Revhead was embarrassed at Win's generosity.

“A growing War Boy needs what he can get,” Win said firmly, dropping the bar onto the cloth, too late remembering there was some significance to that sort of gesture, something that he had heard from the others but had never cared for.

“Um...don't know if I can accept this if you mean it the way I think you perhaps mean it?” By the bright light of the shop, Win could see the tips of the Revhead's ears glowing pink through the worn white.

“No, no. Nothing like that. There's no meaning. That's just shop nonsense that bored dullards throw around. This is just supper,” Win said, eating his half of the bar, using his hand to catch the crumbs. “Sometimes a half-bar means no more than a half-bar.”

“Thanks.”

 

Win licked the crumbs off his hands; that and a good strong drink of water would keep him until the morning meal. He glanced at the Revhead who was savoring the last few bites of the half-bar, nibbling at a press of cooked greens that had been haphazardly mashed into the center.

“They ought to cut that stuff up better,” Win said. “Surprised that the bar still has any kind of structural integrity.”

“Oh, I wetted it a little with the water,” the Revhead said, gesturing to the cap-end that he had filled with a dab of water. “Makes it taste better.”

“I'll have to try that sometime,” Win said thoughtfully to himself, and then shook his head, realizing he had spoken too rashly before an unknown War Boy.

Unsurprisingly the Revhead ducked his head, embarrassed.

“Worry not, little Revhead. Sometimes that's just me talking out loud to myself,” Win said. “Thank you for your hard work today. In the future, you needn't make up the hours; that Blackthumb was out of line and we had a little talk after about politeness and professionalism that you missed. Though certainly next time when you do feel ill or ill at ease, you ought to receive permission from the Driver to go; other bosses may not be so easy going about your self-dismissal. But besides that, thank you for staying. You ought to go to your nest now and rest.”

“Y-yeah.” Gratefully, the Revhead quickly folded up his clean shop cloth, spotted with darker black dabs here and there from the damp touch of the Revhead's tongue and Win briefly noticed that the ends of the cloth had been neatly hemmed.

“Nice cloth, kid,” Win said as he stood up. He picked up his water bottle and took a swig of it as he walked away.

Too late he realized that he hadn't caught the Revhead's name.

*****

It was not hard to find out; all it was was a matter of asking around.

“Moki, do you know the names of the Revheads assigned to my shop?”

“Win,” Moki gave him a stern look. “What's wrong? Who did you fight this time?”

“No one,” Win said and he held up hands, baring his knuckles to show Moki the old scars and lumps from past fights, but nothing new, not even a bruise. 

“Please, I know you've gotten more clever and mostly hit with the parts of your hand that wouldn't leave cuts or bruises on you. Why do you need to know?”

“Just curious, that's all. A passing fancy.”

“That means that you don't know any of their names, doesn't it?”

Win grinned and tapped the tip of his nose with his index finger. Never know anyone, he signed.

Learn, fool, Moki signed back, and Win could see Moki's expression soften; of the survivors of that horrible, botched trading run when they were young, only a fraction had been of Trader stock; these days there were one or two other Traders in the three Settlements, but they were hard men that neither Win nor Moki wanted anything to do with. 

And of that fraction of survivors, the others had died over the years and Win and Moki were now the only two left that could speak to each other with the lingo. But as time passed on and on, adding to the long count since the bad run, Win found himself struggling to remember certain words and phrases, sometimes waking up from dreams realizing that he no longer remembered specific ways to sign things and had to spell them out instead.

Moki signed through a list of names.

Eldest? Win asked, and Moki gave him the name. Youngest?

C-O-I-L, Moki fingerspelled, and Win turned little loops with his index finger, a word that meant a spiraling spring or a tornado the size of a dust devil or a mad thought.

Moki laughed silently, mouth closed, the way they laughed in the old days.

“War Boys,” Win said suddenly. “Their styles of naming are atrocious. For example, just look at little Stonker. What a name to be burdened with.”

“He has always been big for his age,” Moki ventured.

“So he is. Though I would have named him better,” Win said, “If some numbered Imperator hadn't gotten to him first.”

“Number Imps,” Moki said with disdain. 

“Numbskulls. Household War Boys,” Win shook his head. “With no taste and no sense of aesthetic. Certainly that's why these War Boys have the worst names. Little innocent children burdened with names like Bolt or Nux...terrible. Might as well be Dolt and Nix.”

“And I'm certain you could do better naming them. By the way, why did you want to know their names? Did you want to suggest some commendations? A promotion?” 

“Oh, Moki, it's mere morbid curiosity. Say, I hear they're building a proper practice car? With moving hydraulics and an electric engine and everything?”

“That? Oh, I heard how you had a hand in suggesting that, Win. Angling for a spot higher on the line? You know, I think the Imperator has half a mind to promote you to one of us, despite your history. That is, if you could stay out of trouble for maybe, 100 days running?”

“Me? A Half-life Noble?” Win laughed. 

Serious, Moki signed. Death serious.

Half-asleep Bumble, Win signed back, and they both had a laugh, snickering so loudly that it caught the attention of the Revheads at work, pausing to look over as they moved the dismembered panels of a car's chassis from one shop to another.

“But perhaps I do have some suggestions for commendations,” Win said suddenly, thoughts of the blue-eyed Revhead still lingering on his mind.

“Oh? Do tell.”

“Young Coil. He was feeling briefly ill the other day so he left the shop early, but then he came back to finish his work, working through supper. I suppose that sort of responsibility is worth notice,” Win said casually.

“Yes, I suppose it is. I'll tell the Imperator,” Moki said, though he eyed Win curiously. “That's rather unlike you, Win. Usually you have nothing good to say about anyone. What's with the sudden interest, huh?”

“Such as that Blackthumb,” Win said primly, ignoring Moki's question. “Who I have nothing good to say about.”

“And whose nose you broke,” Moki said, with more than a hint of reproach in his voice.

“I'd rather not have him back,” Win said firmly. “He was harassing my Revheads; I won't have that in my shop.”

“It's probably not as bad as you think it was, Win. You're over-sensitive to certain behavior--”

“Perhaps. Maybe it was mere jesting on his part, but I run a professional shop,” Win said smartly, straightening himself up stiffly. “I won't put up with vulgar foolishness; if War Boys want to harass and make each other uncomfortable, they should look to be assigned elsewhere. I won't tolerate such boorish behavior toward the other members of my crew; just because a Blackthumb is at the top of the heap in the world of the Revheads doesn't give him the right to abuse his power.”

“I'll make a note of it,” Moki said.

“You had better,” Win gave Moki a sharp look. “Tell the Imperator too; War Boys who prey on the young are dangerous and should be tossed off the edge. But for the sake of keeping you in good standing, as I know our friendship is often a black mark against you, I'd do it myself, a dozen times over.”

“Win, don't be silly. And your friendship is not a black mark against me, we were friends long before I was raised to the top of the line.”

“Fine. Believe what you will, but make certain to report it to the Imperator.”

*****

Before long, things changed yet again. Win saw Stonker at meals, but only from a distance in the line; these days Stonker sat with his cohort, eating together, building what Win imagined was solidarity and camaraderie among his peers. Or perhaps just following orders. 

Otherwise they didn't see each other much outside the shop, though Win tried to walk Stonker to his nest at night when he could. But most nights the child ran off with his fellow cohortmates before Win could catch up. 

Since Stonker's first day in the War Tower, Win had stayed by his side, night and day, through work and sleep, though it had cost him in status, caused him to be mocked by others, even disciplined by the Imperator for his idiosyncratic stubbornness. Back then he had fought tooth and nail to keep Stonker with him. Now, Stonker had left him of his own accord, and Win could do nothing but watch.

Instead of lying sleepless in the nest he frequented, Win started going to the shop after hours by himself, whiling away his evenings drawing on a shop slate, sketches of people and things around the shop, drawings of old memories from the past that he would rub out with the flat of his hand after he was done, unable to properly contemplate the life he had lost.

Sometimes he slept in the driver's seat, his slate heavy and cool against his belly, and would wake to the sound of the pounding drums as the earliest of the daily patrol went out to scour the region around the settlements of intruders.

Win had settled into a new rhythm of living.


	16. Chapter 16

In his loneliness, Win never expected a break to his solitude, but when it came to him it was as a surprise, wholly unexpected.

After supper, he made his way to the lower warren, following the familiar night-time path to the shop. It was no longer detestable; what was detestable was the longing he had for Stonker's presence by his side. But over time even that longing was slowly beginning to fade, leaving him with nothing more than the knowledge of a life alone, falling back into the life he had lived before Stonker changed everything, back to that time of over three years of aching loneliness and solitude broken by visits with Moki who had long since left him too, to stand by the Imperator's side.

So it would be like this until he died, Win thought, unable to imagine a world beyond what he had now. Driving escort until he was killed in the line of duty, and maybe it would be better if that happened sooner than later.

But no, there were still things he had to accomplish; he still hadn't told Stonker about Kier. Win clung to that thought like a talisman, and it helped get him from one day to the next.

After a long, slow walk, Win trudged into the shop, wrapped in his own black misery.

Someone else was there first. The War Boy had his back to Win, looking at the car.

“Ahem,” Win opened his mouth, a mouthful of venomous words waiting ready on the tip of his tongue. Whoever it was, Win was ready to snap at the interloper who had dared invade his shop and his privacy, but then before he could speak, the War Boy turned and it was the young Revhead, Coil.

The nasty words dried up on his tongue.

“What are you doing here?” Win asked, surprised.

“Saw the whole thing was not finished. Uh.” Flustered, Coil paused and began again, fingers twitching. “That is, I left some work unfinished, and I came back to finish, but...”

“There's always tomorrow.” Win said flatly, and then he realized he was very close to giving the Revhead an undeserved tongue-lashing. “But if you must be here, you... Wait. Please don't tell me you worked through supper again.”

“Sorry, boss,” the youth ducked his head awkwardly. “It took longer than I thought by myself.”

“Goodness. Were all War Boys this responsible, I'd never have to complain to Moki about the quality of the crew,” Win sighed. Still annoyed by the intrusion, Win gestured for the Revhead to sit. “Well.” Win sat down beside Coil and used the movement as cover to carefully choose his words so as to not say anything unintentionally cruel. “Your responsibility, as ever, is of course appreciated. The least I can do is make certain you've had your supper; it would be irresponsible of me to send a member of my crew off to bed on an empty stomach.”

 

Coil ate slowly, almost aggravatingly so, and it made Win wonder why he wouldn't hurry up and finish, so they could go about their own ways; Coil to whatever nest he belonged to and a good night's sleep, and Win to his quiet contemplative life of quiet contemplative misery.

Having nothing to say, Win said nothing at all, mouth closed, elbow leaning against his knee and his hand covering his mouth, an old habit from the days of the condenser that he could never quite break; he would always prefer humid, partially recycled air to this fresh and dry nonsense that all War Boys who hadn't come from a properly civilized background seemed to love.

“Thanks for supper.”

“Mmm.”

“You know, these are really good. They must have made a good batch.”

“Fascinating. Do go on,” Win said automatically.

“Uh, well. There are beans of course, but they haven't been cooked to death so they're still a little chewy and in pieces. And this batch was made with milk and the good greens, so it's sweet and not bitter. And there are whole pieces of nuts and not too much fermented stuff, so it's got a good balance of flavor...”

“Wonderful. Absolutely so,” Win said flatly.

“Um, did you want a bite to taste?”

“No thank you, I'm still rather full from supper. Which you, a growing War Boy, should eat properly,” Win said thoughtlessly, without considering his words.

“Sorry. Don't mean to be taking from you,” Coil cringed, embarrassed.

“You needn't worry about such things. Two and a half bars is absolutely nothing as I am hardly the kind of War Boy who spends his extra on...whatever dullards and dolts spend their extra on,” Win waved his hand abstractly, gesturing junk. “It's not that I'm begrudging you the meal, I'd do that for any of you boys. It's just...”

“Um. Am I bothering you?” Coil ventured.

“To be honest? Yes.” 

“Should go then, sorry...”

“No, it's all right.” Win huffed a sigh, gesturing for Coil to stay. “It's fine to be bothered once in a while. After all, without anyone bothering one, it is a miserable and lonely life.”

Coil glanced at him. Win's expression was unreadable behind his obscuring hand, which he had seemingly retreated behind, but his eyes seemed sad, troubled.

“You...don't have to live that way. Don't you have mates?”

“Of course, everyone has mates, one way or another. One could not live without friends or allies,” Win said crossly. “But some things aren't things that one can speak of with their mates who don't understand anything important and. And I don't know why I'm telling you this; you're just a snot-nosed brat from the Revhead pool.”

Coil gave him a wry look and laughed.

“You really aren't afraid of Drivers, are you? What, are you suicidal?” 

Coil shrugged. “Grew up around them all my life. And Lancers, and Revheads...”

“Hmm.” Win bit back all the less than friendly words about Citadel-born War Boys that were spoken around the shops. “Suppose that's fair. Really, the Drivers are the ones that are suicidal. Though I suppose that's in a tie with Lancers. No, not all Drivers are as reckless as a Lancer, we have to make sure all the assets get back in one piece...”

“What an odd thing to say.” Coil searched Win's face, trying to puzzle out the joke, if there was one.

“Serious as a caravan on fire,” Win said. “Bunch of roughshod fools driving as fast and furious as they can from point A to point Bartertown, trying to outrun other packs of roughshod fools. It's a vicious cycle; best not to get involved, if it can be helped.”

“Why do you say that? Isn't it a great honor to drive or even ride escort for the War Rig?”

Win gave Coil a flat look, envious of his innocence, his naivete. “Revhead, not everyone wants to die historic. Some of us yearn for surviving to the grand old age of ripe death, warm in our beds, where we fall asleep one night and never wake again.”

At this, Win expected Coil to laugh; he had phrased it in such a manner that most War Boys would have understood for humor, for parody, but oddly Coil did not laugh, but gave him a thoughtful look.

“Never thought of it that way. I suppose that's the kind of death that'd be most like Before...”

“Better than catching a bullet to the head.” Win quickly changed the subject, and pantomimed the gesture to his own skull. “Bang!”

 

Coil paused in eating. Win nearly sighed from exasperation, and he wondered, how slowly could the War Boy eat?

“Actually, I'm putting in my name to train as a Lancer. The Imperator wants volunteers. Tomorrow I'm joining the rota.”

Win gave Coil a skeptical look. “So you're a suicidal fool.”

“No, of course not. No one tries to get killed on the Fury Road unless they're deep on the last legs of their half-life. Everyone knows that,” Coil said adamantly, with the certainty of youth. “That's just insane and a waste of all the food and water and training. Everyone should know that.”

“Everyone should know that it's a fool's game. You ought to quit those foolish thoughts. Live the quiet, modest life of a shopbound Revhead. Even an Organic has it better, though the work's harder,” Win said.

“Why would I do that?” Coil fidgeted, and the movement caught Win's eye, long clever fingers almost elegant in their motion.

“Because you'd live longer and happier. There is a lot of merit to the life lived without dirtying one's hands with the blood of strangers.”

“But I...” Coil smiled faintly to himself. “When I'm older, I want to be a Driver.”

“So you want pay. Or status. Or you want to kill someone else, if not yourself. Ambition drives many a youth, I suppose.”

“No. The pay and status would be good, and don't be silly about the suicidal thing, I don't want to die. And I don't want to kill anyone, not unless it's necessary.” Coil looked embarrassed. “Really, the reason I want to do it is to protect people. Not just my Driver or my Lancer, whatever I end up as...but everyone I can. All my life I've heard stories about raids from Buzzards and Bandits and...well, I want to do my best to keep us all safe.”

“That is commendable,” Win said, and an odd little feeling went through him at Coil's words, and a part of him was slightly embarrassed to think that the youth's words had touched him. “But there are already plenty of us fools doing that work and daily, the territory grows a little safer, bit by bit. We've pushed the Buzzards back quite some klicks.”

“But you won't be around forever.”

“No, I suppose that's true.”

“People die. Someone will need to stand in your boots someday, so younger War Boys like us need to work hard to catch up.”

“Such talk from a Revhead! Will thank you not to speak as though one were an ancient, decrepit and useless old crone on his last tooth,” Win said tartly, and Coil grinned, giving him the side of his eye.

“With all due respect of course, boss.”

“Yes, yes. Just finish your food.”

 

“So why are you here? Really? There wasn't much left undone. You're not here for the free food, are you” Win glanced at Coil, who was licking the crumbs off his shop cloth, the pink tip of his tongue darting along the black, leaving dabs of damp marks.

“Um.” Coil paused, dumping all the crumbs into his palm at once and licking his hand clean, before wiping off with the cloth. 

“Surely you can tell me.”

“Promise you won't get mad.”

Win sighed. “Not certain I can promise that right out, but... All right, how's this. I promise that when it comes down to it, I won't hit you in the face or anywhere else on your body if I'm offended. Nor will I kick you, no matter how much I want to. Is that good enough to go by?”

Coil laughed, delighted but wanting to stay quiet, smothered the sound on his shop cloth and Win found himself smiling, just a little bit.

“Ha! It's good enough to go by,” Coil smiled, but then the amusement quickly turned to shyness.

“Well? What is it?”

“So boss. Sometimes when I come early...the shop slates...” Flustered, Coil folded and refolded his shop cloth before shoving it in a pocket. “Noticed recently that someone draws on the slates, but they're not drawn on during shop hours because otherwise everyone would know. It's not very obvious that they're drawn on, but I noticed the little marks on the edge where the chalk went too far or where something didn't get erased all the way. So I came to look around and...um. It's because a day or two ago, I found this while working.”

Coil carefully pulled out a thin piece of slate from his valuables pocket; often larger slates were dropped and broken and the smaller pieces reused. Even though the slates were semi-disposable as a vast cache from Before was nearby and the transport costs minimal as it was mostly a matter of swinging the daily patrol by to pick up pieces of the smooth black material, by nature War Boys were frugal and reused the stone when they could.

Palm-sized, Win remembered the drawing, though not where he had put it.

“Found it behind the driver's seat, boss.” Coil was embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn't mean to look but it was wedged up against the extra fuel tank...”

“It must have slipped.” Win took the slate from the Revhead, and ran his finger along the jagged edge of the stone where the slate had been broken. The smudged sketch and blurry sketch was rough, only the barest of chalk lines and not even fully complete; he thought he had erased it but apparently it had slipped from both his thoughts and his grip.

Kier, in profile. The little crease of lines beside her smiling eyes, the curling coil of her black hair laying along her cheek, the fullness of her lips...

Win gave the slate a glance before rubbing it clean on his trousers, slow and deliberate, leaving a faint stain of white that could have just as easily come from the white he wore.

“Why did you do that?” Coil wondered. But before Win could come up with a suitable answer for why he wiped off the slate, the Revhead continued. “That is, why do you draw the things you draw? No one I know draws people. It's all machines, parts and gears and the turning sun or moon wheel. It's never people. And...is that person from Before?”

“It doesn't mean anything,” Win lied swiftly. “My hand moves and it's like thinking out loud, only with chalk instead of words.”

“Could you...show me?”

“Not sure you'd get much out of it but...fine, I can show you, if that's what you'd like.” Win dug in his valuables pocket and took out a fine piece of chalk. “Of course, like cars, one needs the best possible tools for the work. Failing that, I suppose a nub of chalk and a bit of rock are adequate...”

 

The next night or two, Win came to the shop alone, and it was as any other night, and he retreated into the solace of solitude, drawing alone, though he found his hand wandering, drawing subjects that he hadn't considered drawing before.

But then the Revhead started showing up.


	17. Chapter 17

Win had been drawing for a while before he noticed that someone was easing themselves down to sit beside him along the side of the car. Win paused so as not to spoil the work and glanced over at the War Boy.

“What are you doing here?”

“Saw that you were drawing and thought I'd stop by and say hi,” Coil said, almost shyly. “Is...this okay?”

“No.” Win said flatly, but at the disappointment in Coil's eyes, he relented. “Of course it's fine, I'm just joking. Here. Just sit and try not to jostle my drawing hand.”

“Sure.” Politely, Coil moved away minutely, so that they wouldn't accidentally touch, but he was still close, a little too close for Win's comfort, and so Win found himself sidling away. “What are you drawing? A War Boy?”

“The correct way to phrase that, little...little Revhead, is to ask who I am drawing,” Win said tartly, as he erased and then redrew the outline of the jaw. It was easier now that he didn't have to do it from memory.

“So who is it?”

“Are you sure you don't recognize him?” Win said dryly, and paused in his work to hand Coil the slate.

Coil studied it thoughtfully, and then shook his head. “No clue. Looks about the age of a new Revhead. Is this a real person? Maybe it's an Organic I haven't met? Don't know most of them that well.”

“Goodness, have you really never...” Win laughed. “All right, all right. It makes sense; in your life, you probably haven't had many opportunities for self-reflection. Besides that, the practicality...you haven't worked your way high enough in the ranks to work in the War Rig shop, have you?”

“No.”

“Poor little id-...ah. Here, look.” And Win dug into his trousers, pulling out a small, flat round object, and handed it to Coil.

“Oh wow, how'd you get looking glass?” And Coil looked into the cracked surface, seeing his reflection. He tilted the mirror this way and that, studying the image curiously. “So that's what I look like,” Coil suddenly laughed, delighted. “No wonder I didn't recognize that War Boy!”

“When was the last time you properly saw your reflection, Revhead?” Win asked, avoiding saying that name, letting it touch his tongue but not letting it slip out.

“Probably when I was a pup.” Coil touched his face curiously, peering at the mirror. “Wow, my face has changed a lot since then! Ha, look at my nose. It's so big. I really look like a War Boy now!”

Win kept his expression controlled, as his eyes lingered on the long line of Coil's nose. “Y-you'd need a looking glass to shave, once you start.”

“Oh no,” Coil said, “Dart helps me with that, and I help him. Don't need a mirror when you have a good mate.”

“So I've heard.” Win took the mirror back and put it away, glancing at Coil more carefully, seeing the barest hint of stubble beneath the white. So he had misjudged the Revhead's age, Win thought; he was a bit older than he had first suspected but still very young. “Exactly how old are you, Revhead? That is, how many days do you have?”

“About fifty-six hundred days, give or take,” Coil said, and handed Win back the slate. Without a word, Win wiped it clean on the leg of his trousers.

Coil glanced at him with an expression that spoke volumes; the Revhead was wondering if he had caused offense.

“Rather young, aren't you? That's about a thousand days from the traditional coming of age, were one to follow the ancient ways of Before,” Win said, forcing his tone to be nonchalant, casual. “When I was your age, I had started driving escort, but then, we had fewer hands to do all the necessary work.” Win began to realize he had been saying all the wrong things; Coil was starting to look uneasy. “Why don't you sit under the shop light, over there. Let's see if I can draw better from life than from memory.”

“You...you're going to draw me?”

“Absolutely.”

 

Shading in those earnest eyes, a lovely blue that Win could not hope to capture with his white chalk, and of a brilliant color that he had only noticed when the Revhead was under the shop light, then drawing the long dark lashes, and seeing their expectant flutter as the Revhead watched him curiously from across the room, a strange feeling went through Win. It settled in the pit of his stomach, heavy, a strange sense of fullness and hollowness all at the same time, and Win wondered what it was that he ate that had unsettled his stomach.

He finished the work; it was not something he was terribly proud of, having done the work too quickly, hurrying even as his eyes feasted on the little details of the Revhead's face, at the play of light over his cheekbones, the dark-drawn brow, the grave seriousness of his lips when not smiling. Win handed the drawing over to Coil. The ear was a little crooked and the proportions not quite to his liking, but Coil had liked it all the same, proclaiming that he would keep it safe and treasured forever.

“Good luck with that, then,” Win said dryly. “The medium's not meant to be fixed. It'll smear, and rub off, eventually. Nothing is permanent, not in this world.”

“But what about the world engine? And the turning wheels of the sun and the moon?” 

Instead of saying what he wanted to say, that even the steadfast sun would someday burn out too, taking everything with it, Win just smiled and said something meaningless, before shooing the Revhead off to bed.

 

Win turned off the shop lights, one by one, and the shop fell into a deep darkness, but for the dim light of the moon coming through the ventilation shaft. He knew he couldn't sleep, but he got in the car anyway and laid down on the reclined driver's seat and closed his eyes. Lying down and closing one's eyes counted as rest, Win thought, as that strange feeling squirmed in his gut. Perhaps this was what happened when one turned half-life, he thought. Death would be around the corner, just waiting for him. Perhaps he'd get that soft death in bed after all, though he shuddered at the thought of the unforgiving stone benches of the infirmary. Better walk off the end before that kind of end, he decided.

The hour was late, and Win was becoming aware that his bad habits were crawling up on him, the accumulated hours of sleep that he had lost to his odd fancy. To get through tomorrow, he would have to sleep a little during the day somehow; perhaps he'd order off his crew early, or perhaps he'd pull that trick of setting them to some tedious task while he wandered off to find a corner of the Citadel to snooze. Finding an empty place wouldn't be hard; he knew every corner of both the War Tower and the Third Tower.

He shut his eyes and finally fell into fitful sleep, punctuated by strange, unsettled dreams and that strange feeling that ran through his entrails.

 

The pounding of the drums of the morning daily woke him, the creaking of the chains as they lowered the vehicles and Win woke weary, exhausted. It seemed everything was as it was again, yet another day, but then his thoughts suddenly recalled the night before, and he remembered Coil looking at him from across the shop, blue eyes bright with wonder and the hint of a smile on his lips and then suddenly, Win realized with horror that that strange feeling in his gut, that hollowness, was not the onset of the lumps, but longing.

And he knew there would be nothing wrong with having any longing, but for who it was directed at. That poor little Revhead was so young and perhaps it meant that he was no better than a predator himself, to have his eye turned by a youth not yet near adulthood.

Disgusted with himself, Win choked on the horror of it. It brought back the intensity of the hatred, all the feelings of shame, the hard hands of the Prime pinning him to the stone, the tears he could no longer shed and the anger that still clung to him like a low-grade fever even after all these years.

Sickened with himself, Win turned upon the seat, fists clenched, trying to will those feelings away.

*****

“Do me a favor, Moki.”

“Win. What's wrong? You don't look like you've been sleeping. And you really ought to shave and cut your hair; have you taken up your bad habits again? Is everything all right?”

“Of course,” Win lied. “Merely a few nights of poor rest. Someone, and I shan't say who, has been snoring like a buzzsaw in my nest and I am in process of switching.”

“Hmm, all right.” Moki looked at Win skeptically. “So what is it? Whady'a need?”

“Swap out that young Revhead. What was his name again? Coil? Assign him to a different shop. The War Rig shop, I think, could benefit from such a promising young lad.”

“Are you sure? Thought you were pleased with his work.”

“And I am. Truly. So much so that I think it's wasted on me. Take him up the line a notch or two; he'll benefit from a bigger shop than mine. Run's coming up and I know you'll need all the competent hands you can get.”

“I suppose we could give him a try.”

“And one last thing, Moki. Please, don't mention that I recommended him. In fact, don't bring me up at all.”

“Why is that? I'm sure he'd be pleased to know you found his work commendable.”

“Young Coil is a modest, diligent lad. Wouldn't want him embarrassed. Swear on it, Moki. Not a word.”

“You mean, you're a modest, diligent lad who doesn't want to be embarrassed. Fine, fine.” Moki smiled, linking pinkies briefly with Win like two children at play before clasping on it like War Boys. “I promise, doubly so.”

“You're a good friend.”

*****

Win realized that in a world where near everyone was easily recognizable, he had to do whatever he could to keep the Revhead away, to disappear into the crowd. It was wrong, it was improper; the youth was so young and he, a War Boy almost four thousand days older, was no more than a predator if he pursued the youth the way that he secretly desired. 

At least to his credit, Win had realized, it was not a physical desire so much as a desire for intimacy, for closeness, but even then...

Win thought of himself as a boy, his bare feet treading the cold hard stone of the Citadel and the thin blanket around his shoulders, and shivered with disgust, thinking that he himself, at this time, could be tempted in a similar way...

So Win changed his habits. No longer did he go to the shop after supper; he went directly to the nest, and changed nests every now and then, always avoiding the one that Coil slept in.

When he drew, he took his work up into the old warren, and he made very certain that he cleaned the slate and its edges; often he cleaned it off doubly, or triply, as if once were not enough to ascertain that the image was completely erased. He swapped shops a few times as well, giving up a better lit and better situated workspaces for worse ones.

Intermittently, he stopped shaving as regularly, picking up where he had left off years ago, when he had obscenely let his beard grow to court ire, to see how much he could get away with. He traded some work for a pair of suspenders; wearing that occasionally would change his appearance yet again. Some days he'd darken his eye sockets, other days he'd draw lines of black across his lips, even though he hated doing such things and felt nothing but scorn for even himself when he wore such decorations. 

And one angry, bitter night, with no one to fight but himself, he wandered off into the old warren and in an empty chamber deep in the stone, heated up a blade in his lantern and burned flames onto his own bicep, marking himself in the way the other War Boys did, to hide among the crowd, hoping not to be remembered.

Something strange happened that moment, when he put the hot metal to his shivering skin. As he bit back the pain that reminded him of that first, indelible mark, as the endorphins and adrenaline raged through his body like a shot of nitrous to the engine while fanging it hard, it was as though this new mark, this new pain, burned off some of the old pain, searing the memory away and even through the long days of aching healing, Win felt some of the pain of the past easing, just a little bit and he was strangely glad for it.

 

Sometimes he'd see Coil in the crowd, passing by in the central shop during feast days or big work muster days. The longing was still there; Win could not help but look for Coil among the others. He was glad to see that the Revhead was thriving, and hoped that Coil would quickly forget him, yet another War Boy in a world full of both closeness and anonymity.

 

Between his own changes and the Revhead's new job in the War Rig shop, Win prayed that it would be enough to put seconds, minutes between his life's drive and Coil's life's drive, so that their paths would run parallel, never intersecting.

It worked, but it didn't work forever.


	18. Chapter 18

“Absolutely not. I won't do it.” Win crossed his arms and glared at Moki.

Moki shrugged, unimpressed. “Every Driver's gotta, unless they're on the daily patrol. Imperator's orders; sworn crews are better crews.”

“I don't want a permanently assigned Lancer. Can't you just leave me as the odd man out, driving leftover Lancers and rotational assignments? I'll swear on the face of the Immorta herself to bring them back in one piece if they do their best to hang on and not die.”

“Win, you know it's for your safety too. A rotational Lancer might not have your best interests in mind.”

“So I'll drive the daily then.”

“You're too skilled to drive the daily. Acosta would never agree to let you do that anymore, not as your primary job. It's escort or nothing else.”

“So I'll become a Revhead. An Organic. Anything. No, not quite anything, I'd rather not maintain the plumbing or farm mushrooms, if that's all right with you.”

“That's not possible,” Moki said calmly. “You know that.”

“Why must I take a sworn Lancer?” Win raged. “This is intolerable! You know that I mean to get everyone home intact. I've never brought back a Lancer with a broken bone.”

“That's because you always slow down to a crawl before throwin 'em off.”

“That only happened once, Moki, and we all know that he deserved what he got. I did no lasting harm to him. See, this is exactly what I mean by--”

“You don't gotta take anyone you don't want. There are some promising young Lancers that just got promoted.”

“I won't hear of it, Moki. I shan't listen to this foolishness any longer. If you want me, I'll--”

“One of them is named Coil.” Moki said steadily, meeting Win's eyes. “Didn't you take an interest in his career early on?”

Win closed his mouth, glancing away. “Fine. Then perhaps I'll consider looking into this new corps of Lancers and seeing what their skills are. But I can't promise anything. Perhaps I won't be able to decide. If that's the case, I'd like to dry and sort beans. Have a rather soft spot for bean counting, if I do say so myself...”

“The proper way of approaching an unpaired is at the War Games. That's soon, you know.”

“Yes, yes, despite my brutish ways, I know etiquette and proper decorum,” Win sighed, and nursed that little pain in his heart that told him not to hope.

*****

Black, crimson, and yellow flags fluttered in the bracing wind, and Win adjusted his dustwrap as dust kicked up, narrowing his eyes as the two cars dueled in the distance, their Lancers clinging tight as the cars skidded around each other, trying to position themselves for the kill. The leaden sky hung oppressive, and the air itself seemed to crackle with an energy that crawled and tingled beneath his skin, itching his bones.

He had wasted time all morning as best he could, anxious for the afternoon Lancer run, one of the main events of the War Games, when all the season's new Lancers were put through their paces to show off their skills. Most of the morning he spent doing brands for War Boys, small pieces that could be paid with a tool or some food bars, quick, mindless, and repetitive work. Lucrative too; he stopped taking food bars at a point, as there was no need for so many, and asked for simple hand tools instead. It was a rare War Boy that wanted something more interesting, and after a certain point Win nearly considered making stencils just as the auto painters did, and he had smothered his laughter as he worked, trying to imagine that. 

Shouts and cheers brought him back to the present. He watched Coil spike a car with his lance, splotching the back tire with white, winning the round. The cars slowed to a crawl and swung back to the staging area to reset their lances and pick up a new challenger.

Of course Coil was good at this game, Win thought to himself, of course he would excel and that in and of itself was unwelcome, because that meant that Win would have to enter the scrimmage of suitors, a distasteful, foolish system of courting young Lancers that always set Win's teeth on edge even seeing it even from a distance. Drivers looking for their first or maybe even their fourth or fifth Lancer, depending on what they drove, what their means were, and what their preferences were, chasing promising Lancers.

But when he thought about the order, Win could not help but be pleased when he realized Coil's placement; too early in the heats, which meant that unless he was supernaturally gifted, he'd be eliminated soon, and that gave Win an opening he hadn't considered before.

“That Lancer on the rust red. You know his name?” A tall, heavily muscled Driver asked and Win gave the War Boy a glance as if to ascertain his identity, though he already knew who it was.

“Certainly not, Elvis. Hadn't occurred to me to ask,” Win lied. “Just one new Lancer or another, what does it matter?”

“He's got good form and a good chassis. Not built too heavy, even though it don't do him any favors. Perfect height for a Lancer too, look where his hand grips the basket, any taller and he'd have to crouch.” Elvis watched with eyes narrowed against the dust as the wind kicked up. 

“A Lancer that young is still growing. Certainly he'll make another half hand or more, at least.” 

“Maybe.” Elvis watched, and Win frowned; there was a certain hard, hungry look to the War Boy that made Win uncomfortable. He wasn't sure what it was – he didn't know the Driver well, other than seeing him at the meets before runs, where they were given orders and assigned their driving positions – but something about Elvis unsettled him. 

“Past ten hands,” Win said, feigning a casual air, “and they're just so comparably awkward. Even nine and a half is better, though they have a shorter reach and ah look, he's lost already, so soon. Pity. Not the best this season, not by half.”

“No, but that Lancer's worth a look. You saw how he's got a feel for the other car's timing, like it's second-- Hey, where'd you go?”

 

A thousand days was a long time for a young War Boy. Win could tell Coil recognized him, but perhaps not well, and for that he was grateful, though he wondered how much the Lancer remembered.

Coil was taller now; their eyes met level, but even then the guilt gnawed at Win, at the edge of his thoughts, haunting him like a ghost. Out of the corner of his eye, Win saw Elvis approaching, eyes on the young Lancer, so quickly he offered Coil his hand. Win counted the distance in seconds as the other Driver approached, forcing his breathing calm, but finally Coil took his hand.

Relieved, Win steered them away from the cars, effectively claiming Coil's attention as they walked through a crowd of watching War Boys, and when he saw the Elvis continue to follow, and yet another Driver join the chase, he linked arms with Coil, signaling to the others that he had made his claim as they walked away arm in arm.

Coil was trembling, and for a moment Win thought he had done the wrong thing, scaring the young Lancer but then Coil leaned in companionably close, resting his head on Win's shoulder while stifling a yawn. Win realized that it was probably just exhaustion from the ride; dueling runs were far harder on both Driver and Lancer than any escort ride or even a real jackal fight out in the wilds of the waste. Real fights were usually counted in seconds whereas dueling runs were counted in minutes.

He glanced back; the other Drivers had disappeared into the crowd. Win breathed a sigh of relief.

“...seen you around the warren,” he said weakly, though there was an odd comfortableness to their linked arms and Coil's friendly gaze and suddenly a lot of the awkwardness and nerves began to melt away.

 

After food, Coil laid down on the passenger-side floor with a yawn. Win glanced at him from the driver's seat, and thought about what he wanted to ask, what he wanted to say, and how he wanted to say it. For a long moment Win struggled with himself, trying to decide if he should say anything. But then he imagined Elvis' hungry eyes and thought of the other Drivers that might make an offer first. If he meant to put seconds between himself and the others, Win thought, he had better make good on that spent nitrous and go in for the kill.

Bracing himself, Win carefully picked his words and mentally adjusted his tone to be serious yet earnest, but at the same time light enough so that the young Lancer could politely decline if that were the case.

“So.” Win cleared his throat. “Ah, tell me, Lancer, has anyone made you an offer?” 

Silence. Win felt his heart sink; he had been rejected. This was just an accident, having the young man in his car, and even then the young Lancer hadn't even noticed the subtle suggestion of the erotic. It was an unspoken custom that beyond certain occasions such as War Parties, War Boys only invited each other into the vehicle for sex. Even Win, when he had invited provisional Lancers into the cab to sleep during long escort runs, had to always ascertain they knew that it was only an offer to stay out of the wind of the waste and nothing more, though once or twice he had to drive the point home with his fists.

“Please understand that I'm sorry, I really am. One doesn't mean to pressure, it's just that...” And when his words were met with further silence, Win glanced over cautiously at Coil.

Coil was dead asleep, mouth slack and slightly drooling. Breathing a sigh of relief, Win laughed silently to himself.

Gently, very carefully, he leaned over and pressed Coil's jaw closed so that he wouldn't lose so much water. Poor babes, Win thought to himself, no one must have taught him any better, how to always position oneself before sleep so that the mouth would not fall slack.

He dug out the second blanket, and here he laughed to himself again; poor little Lancer, stealing all the blankets. Win tucked Coil in.

Once he was sure that Coil was settled, Win reclined his seat and crossed his arms, covering his liver.

Even though he wanted to, he couldn't sleep, as though the restlessness of the storm still clung to him, electricity gnawing at his bones.

Lightning struck all around, seconds apart, and yet the Lancer dozed, without even a flinch at the thunderous claps of lightning that streaked white-hot across the iron-dark sky.

Truly, he was jealous of that kind of innocent sleep, the well-earned sleep of the hard-working War Boy. He hadn't slept like that himself in years.

Win curled up on his side, eyes wide at the sight of the storm-shattered sky, at the rain streaking cold down the windowpanes, and he thought about Kier, for the first time in a long time.

He imagined her beside him, her fingers twined with his, warm, and the dusty scent of her curling hair, springy little coils tickling his neck, his cheek. He closed his eyes, imagining what he had to tell her, and what she would have said about his little Lancer.

He signed to her, telling her the tale as he would have in the past, imagining she could see him from afar, wherever she was.

And then when he was done, when all the words ran out of him, leaving him empty, he paused and then finished with their old words of parting:

I am, he began, but then he stopped, unable to complete the motion. But he had to; even as much as he wanted to stay speaking to Kier, the imaginary Kier that was so far away from him that she might as well be dead, in the dark land of no return where those lost were clothed in ash like the soft gray feathers of birds. 

He had to tell her goodbye because there was nothing left to say.

Win's hands moved, finishing the phrase.

Crazy about you.


	19. Chapter 19

Win rounded a corner and immediately turned the other direction. Some Driver was giving a poor little Lancer the business, and he rolled his eyes; it was always like this in the days following the War Games. Petty dramas and silly scenes surrounding the season's new Lancers and why did everyone have to make such an embarrassing fuss? It was easier when they didn't have fancy titles for their jobs and everyone just worked, Win decided, doing what was needed, whether it meant driving or fixing the vehicles or even just sweeping the rough stone floors.

But then he recognized the voices and instead of walking away, he quickly looped around and entered the nearest empty shop, coming in from the car entry, so he could eavesdrop through the warren door.

“...and I already promised someone else,” Coil said firmly. Win's stomach clenched; he hadn't known that Coil had already made an arrangement to ride, and he wondered who it could be. There were only three unpaired Drivers this season and a few multi-Lancer Drivers, and he wondered if Coil had promised one of the War Boys who drove a support truck, or the one of the other single lancer vehicles available.

Win's jaw clenched and he hardened himself against the pain, but instead of walking away, he forced himself to stay, to listen to the rest of their conversation.

“You sure you won't reconsider? You were one of the best at the War Games, and I got a fast ride, one of the fastest. Drive Imperator's side more often than not, and I'll make frontrunner soon.”

“No, Elvis,” Coil said. “Won't reconsider. And I wasn't one of the best, just lucky to have Mosa driving.”

“Modesty,” Elvis growled, “is overrated. A War Boy of your quality should make yourself known around the warrens. You oughta show off the goods a little, make sure the quality of your assets are known.”

“No, no,” Coil sounded embarrassed. “Really, it's nothing important...” And then Win could stand it no longer, and he walked out of the shop as though he had just happened by.

“Oh, Elvis. Coil. Fancy seeing the two of you here.”

The relief on Coil's face was palpable, as was the irritation on Elvis'. Win kept his amusement to himself; he had nothing personal against Elvis, given that he only knew him by name and reputation, but there was something amusing in seeing the Driver's discomfit 

“So is it official?” Win asked, feigning ignorance, studying the two as if he thought they would make a matching crew. “Did I wander into an arrangement?”

“Was just saying that I already have another arrangement.” Coil's words were deliberate, and his eyes were on Elvis, driving the point home. “And I won't change my mind, not for anything.”

“Then who is it? Who're you riding with?” Elvis's jaw was set tight.

“Sorry, but I'd rather let him make the announcement,” Coil said. “He hasn't said anything officially, so I wouldn't want to make things awkward before we even get in the car together.”

“Sure, I get it.” Elvis shook his head, disappointed. “But if you reconsider, you know who to talk to.”

“Appreciate the thought, Driver.” Coil waved as Elvis stalked off.

 

“I'm glad you came,” Coil took Win's arm, drawing him close. Though no one else was around, Win tensed faintly, surprised that he could be addressed so intimately in what was tantamount to a public place.

“P-please, it was nothing. Think nothing of it. Certainly an accident, after all, I was merely passing by...”

“I think it was meant to be,” Coil said, and there it was again, that intimate speech and Win felt himself in the grip of that longing, the tiny hope that he had tried to bank like the coals of a fire stirring within his belly. Win looked down at his boots; the right was more scuffed than the left, and there was a loose thread at the seam of his left that he kept meaning to snip once he remembered to take care of it.

“Perhaps. Or...well, I wouldn't know. Just happenstance, I suppose? Lucky circumstance.”

“More than that.” Coil met his eye. “Sometimes I think these things happen for a reason. Like the connecting spokes of the great turning wheel. Connecting you to me.”

Win shrugged, feeling ill at ease. He looked at Coil and the memory of the bright-eyed Revhead and this self-assured Lancer...the two did not quite coincide but yet there were still striking similarities, as one had grown into the other. He searched Coil's face for that youth, and found someone almost entirely different and he wasn't sure if he should be glad or not.

Coil's fingers tangled with Win's. “We're alone, aren't we?”

“Suppose...I mean, that is. I suppose we are,” Win ventured, cautious, and the sudden happiness on Coil's face seemed to make that choice to use the intimate a risk worth taking.

“Is it all right?” Coil's eyes gleamed in the half-light of the warren, and Win recalled that they were blue, a different, darker blue than the vast blue sky. 

“Is what all right?”

“Is it all right, if I kiss you?”

 

It happened quickly, and later he realized he didn't exactly remember how he said yes or no, just that it happened and Win took a step back, bumping his shoulder against the stone wall of the warren.

“Wait. Not here.” Win fumbled with his words as his heart leapt into his throat; he hated the feel of stone against his back.

“Then where? Should we go to the shop?” Coil gestured to the empty shop behind them, and Win shook his head reflexively.

“Y-your Driver.” Win fought to calm his breathing, and it shouldn't have been that hard to do; he did it all the time driving, but somehow this was harder. “That is to say, the one you're driving with. Riding with. Won't he...”

“Oh, I think he'd approve.” Coil laughed, a deep, rich sound. “After all, he's here right now”

Dumbfounded, Win found himself struggling to even find the words to speak.

“We agreed on it, didn't we? In your car, during the War Games. You asked me to ride with you. After we...” And here Coil paused, and Win wondered if he was blushing under the white.

“Oh. Oh yes. That.” Win laughed weakly. “Had...I don't...that is. Not certain what I was thinking of but yes, yes, that definitely. Yes, I did offer and you...”

“Accept. Then, now, anytime.” Coil took Win's hand. “We don't have to kiss. It doesn't have to be like that between us, not if you don't want it.”

“No. I do,” Win smiled, and it wasn't wholly a lie but it wasn't wholly the truth either. “Just maybe not now. Have work to do, too much to get distracted.”

“It's fine...we have plenty of time for that later, don't we? Were you going to show me around your shop?”

“Of course.” 

Carefully he put his arms around Coil, his chin on Coil's strong shoulder and he closed his eyes briefly. The Lancer's grip was warm, steady, and there was a hint of anticipation to it, a sense of need to his embrace.

The longing was there, as much as it ever was, and Win quietly hated himself for being torn between wanting and having.

*****

“Here.” Win offered his hand to Coil, and helped him up into the lancer's basket. “What do you think?”

Coil gripped the metal struts and bending his knees, gave the basket a bounce, shaking the car. “Suspension's a bit soft. Could we tighten that?”

“Of course. Though now I wish that my provisionals had said something about it; no one ever mentioned that.”

“They say it's impolite to correct the Driver if you're only riding occasionally with him,” Coil said. “At least, that's what I was taught.”

“Wouldn't know,” Win shrugged. “Was never a Lancer.”

“Then what did you do?”

“Before we had Lancers proper, we just shot as we drove, gun in the shifting hand, or if you were very good, gun in the steering hand, knees on the wheel, shifting hand just shifts or helps out the steering knees, and you hit the nitrous with your chin. Or elbow, depending on where the button's set. The very gifted used their tongues.”

Coil laughed, delighted, and Win felt some of the tension melt away.

“Of course, that quickly grew to be rather too much to manage,” Win said, feeling more at ease, “so they started asking for volunteers to go along for the ride and provide covering fire. And of course, one can't arm them like one arms the Driver, since there's always a chance of falling or fumbling and losing a valuable piece. So then they started making these lances.”

“The thunder sticks.”

“Certainly.” Win hated those words, hated the ease by which people said such nonsense, but shrugged it off. “And spears are rather more effective, just as crossbows are oddly more powerful now than even guns, once one can mount explosives. Back then, crossbows were a low-ranked War Boy's only backup; now it seems that only Imperators and Half-life Nobles carry them.”

“I didn't know that.”

“You're too young to know. The old days are thankfully over,” Win said curtly, signaling that he was done speaking about it. “We live in more civilized times, as it were.” 

“We're all grateful for their service,” Coil made the V8, bowing his head piously. “All the War Boys that gave their lives so we can live.”

“I'm sure they'd appreciate it.” Win's eyes narrowed; he had forgotten about the War Boy's piety. The cult of the Immorta was an ever-present part of Citadel life, and while Win himself at times used the words, the imagery, it meant little to him. He changed the subject. 

“Tell me, Lancer. Of course I'm not rescinding or changing my mind. The offer still stands to ride. Merely wondering.” Win stopped, reconsidering, but then the words that had been dammed up behind his tongue came crashing out in a deluge. “Wouldn't you...are you sure you wouldn't be happier with someone else? Someone closer to you in age. You know you can always ride provisional as long as you like; you needn't offer yourself to the wolves on your first proper season as a Lancer. There's nothing wrong with getting more experience on the daily patrol, and there are always new Drivers coming up. Certainly by next season you'll find someone you'd like better, someone more suited for you.”

“No.”

“And there are Drivers such as... erm, well, I don't know his name but he's about this tall and about this wide and he drives a modified Ford and I think he's got about two, three thousand days less than me and wait, did you say no?”

“I said no.” Coil met his eyes with a frank, determined look. “I'm serious Win. No one else is as suited for me as you. Not this season, not the next...not any season.”

“P-please,” Win demurred. “You're too young to know.”

“You keep saying that, but it's not true. I'm old enough to ride the Fury Road. Doesn't that mean I'm old enough to make my own choices?”

“Well! There's no faulting the logic there,” Win said dryly, and then Coil reached out, sliding his arms gently around Win's waist and Win felt the shiver go through his skin, all the way up and down his spine, curling his toes. 

After a long, quiet moment, he dared to meet Coil's eyes and was surprised to find them expectant, with almost a hint of shyness. “But why me?” Win asked. Carefully he put his arm around Coil, mirroring his embrace one hand at a time, feeling the lean muscle that girt Coil's slender waist. “Why not someone else?”

“You chose me, and I choose you back.” Coil said simply. “Isn't this how things work? Being best mates...”

“Those are heavy words.”

“I know. And I mean every one of them.” Coil leaned in for a kiss but this time, Win was a fraction of a second faster.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please see updated tags.

The vast waste was tainted, stained a cold blue by the icy light of the moon, but Win could see very little of it beyond the shroud of powdery grit and sand that enveloped the War Rig and its escort. He could only follow the frontrunners ahead of him, his car's headlights turned off to ease the glare kicked up by the clouds of dust. 

Trust in half-trained madmen, Win thought, but he shrugged it off, gripping the wheel tight. They had done it many times already, one more time to Bartertown couldn't hurt more than death.

But as the moon began to ease toward the horizon, falling down to the earth inexorable, that was when Win could feel the anxiety rise up in his chest, choking his breath, and he glanced back over his shifting shoulder, to see the silhouette of his Lancer's body through the back window.

 

Win paused before getting in the car, trying to think of some excuse to stave off the inevitable.

“You coming?” Coil sounded impatient, and Win felt his jaw clench.

“Just...thinking. Did we get everything done we needed to do?”

“Yes, Win. You triple checked everything personally. Come on, you're letting all the cold in.”

Win took a deep breath and in a quick motion, slid into his seat and closed the door resolutely behind him.

The lantern burned hot, sputtering until he reached over and turned it off with a click.

“What was that for?” Coil wondered.

“It's too bright as it is. We don't need lamplight while we still have moonlight. And even so, we should sleep.” Win eased off his goggles, setting them on the dash, rubbing at the indented skin beside the bridge of his nose.

“There's not much moonlight left.”

“No. So close your eyes, little Lancer, and go to sleep.” Win settled back in his seat, pretending not to notice Coil.

A long silence, and Win was glad for it; perhaps it meant that he could get around it. He knew what happened on runs like this, during the off-hours before the next day's run; sometimes when the vehicles were parked close enough together, he'd even hear it. Gasps, moans of pleasure, grunts and cries and it seemed that everyone around him took even just a few minutes to get to know their Lancer or their Driver a little better.

Win's fingernails bit into his palms and he could feel his heart speed up, painfully so.

Cautiously, a hand reached for him, and Win felt it trace over the tense, closed fist of his hand and if it were anyone else, he'd settle the matter with his fists and boots and call it a night.

“You're so tense. What's wrong? Are you mad? Did I do something wrong?” Coil sat up, and in the gloom of darkness, Win regretted turning off the lamp; it was hard to see what Coil's expression was.

“No. It's not you.” Win sighed. Breathing deep, Win's heart thumped uncomfortably in his chest. He forced his hand to relax as Coil took it, kissing the scarred knuckles.

“You have a lot of scars here.” Coil traced his fingers over the lumpy knuckles, and Win shrugged.

“Well, I have a lot of scars everywhere.”

And Coil laughed. “No, don't exaggerate, Win. I've seen War Boys much worse off than you. You don't have many scars at all!”

“Mmm.” 

He could trace Coil's whitened figure in the darkness and not much more, as though the roughest sketch on black slate, bare lines to suggest the figure of a man.

“You cut your fingernails really short, don't you?” Lips touched his knuckles and then so did the hot dampness of a tongue, dabbing and tracing the scars as Coil's hand wandered over his fingertips. “You're so far away. Come down and join me.”

“Only for a few minutes. Then I have to sleep.” Win yawned, at first falsely but midway through the motion the yawn turned genuine; it had been a long driving day.

“I was hoping you had more than a few minutes in you, Driver.” Coil helped him down onto the floor and Win was thankful at least that they were facing each other, their legs pointed in counterpoint and he thought that meant it wouldn't be what he was dreading.

Even so, Win shifted, pulling his knees up against his chest, ostensibly to give Coil more room to sit, but there was something that felt good about that, and it felt like he could protect his thudding heart from whatever was going to happen next.

Win briefly rested his forehead against his knees, breathing deep through the confining cloth of his dustwrap, trying to bring down the pace of his heart.

“What's wrong?” Coil's hand closed over his shoulder, giving him a squeeze.

“Nothing. Just tired.” But as Coil's hand ran over his back, Coil paused, his palm pressed against Win's ribs.

“Your heart's beating awfully fast.”

“Been driving all day,” Win lied, swallowing down his fear. “That's exciting, isn't it?”

“Is that supposed to happen?” Coil wondered.

“Certainly I would not know. Not something one goes around asking,” Win said crossly, and Coil rubbed his shoulders, and it reminded him how he was sore from the day's drive.

Win sighed, and as he did, suddenly his heart skidded back into its regular rhythm, and the relief that washed over him made him nearly dizzy with gratitude.

“Better?”

“Yes, of course. You made it better,” Win said, not knowing if that was the truth or not, but guessing that Coil would like hearing such things.

“Oh good. Then can I kiss you?”

“Sure.”

Coil gently pushed at Win's knees, easing them down and Win shuffled a little closer, putting a wary hand on Coil's shoulder. They sat hip to hip, facing each other.

“Kind of a tight fit here,” Coil said. “It might be easier if we laid down, in the same direction...”

“No, I'm fine. It's fine.” Win said, a little too quickly.

“Then let me kiss you.” Coil leaned in, and then he pulled back, laughing. “I can't kiss you through your dustwrap. You still have it on!”

“Oh, sorry. Must have slipped my mind,” Win said, though he made no effort to take it off.

“Here. Is it okay?” Coil asked, his fingers stroking Win's cheeks, and Win nodded as Coil drew off the black cloth, letting the damp and dusty folds fall around his neck. “Noticed that you put it on as soon as you could, even before the lift started moving. You must really like wearing it.”

Dry dust and the scent of the waste, but also Coil, smelling of sweat and iron, of work and machine oil. 

Win leaned in to kiss Coil, a polite, careful kiss of the lips.

“Was that a promise?” Coil touched his lips briefly, and then his warm hand closed around Coil's waist, drawing him close.

“It's just a kiss. Isn't that what you wanted?”

“I'd like more than just a kiss, if that's what you're asking...” And Coil leaned in, and what he did with his mouth against Win's mouth seemed lewd, lascivious, something much more than merely a kiss and it sent a strange longing through Win that made him tremble all over with some unknown feeling.

“Goodness...” Win drew back, catching his breath.

“Are you all right?”

“Certainly,” Win lied. “Of course.” And like the way he drove into battle, fearlessly, Win faced Coil again, and Coil's tongue slid hot into his mouth and--

They were lying down, face to face, the rough blanket beneath their sides. Win couldn't quite remember the fumbling motion of how he got here, only that he was here now and that Coil's arms were around him and it would be quite lovely if this kissing could go on forever.

Coil's mouth moved along his throat, just above his dustwrap, leaving a trail of delicate kisses so as not to mar the white, light touches of lips that made Win's toes curl in his boots, tender skin scraping against the coarse-grained interior. Sharp teeth nibbled at his earlobe and Win couldn't help but gasp at the pleasure of that sensation, choking back the moan a fraction of a second too late.

Their legs tangled together carelessly, Coil's legs squeezed his knee tight, the young Lancer's hips grinding against his thigh, and when Win felt the hardness between Coil's legs nudge him, it shocked him out of the pleasure, like being thrown into the cold catchment basin on a hot day.

“Is...everything okay?”

“Y-yes, of course. Of course it is. Just...” And Win felt himself easing Coil off of himself in a panic, backing up though there was nowhere to go in the space between the driver's seat and the passenger door.

“What is it? You...don't want me?” Coil wondered, and Win shook his head furiously. 

“No, no. No, no, no. That is not it. That is not it at all. Just...” Win fumbled, improvising. “That perhaps we should wait. Yes, that's it. We ought to wait.”

“For what?”

“Until...until we're sealed as a team,” Win stammered. “Then it would be more meaningful.”

“Why would we do that?”

“Why not?” Win said lightly. “Isn't the anticipation of waiting exciting? I'm terribly excited. Aren't you?” Retreating quickly, he clambered up onto the driver's seat. “In fact, I am so terribly excited that I should really get some sleep to get us closer to the day.”

“Win!” Coil sounded frustrated. “You're really going to make me thirst this entire time for you?”

“Why not? Certainly I'll be thirsting too. It'll be exciting for both of us to wait. Won't it?” He laughed awkwardly, and wondered if Coil could tell how false it sounded, because to him it sounded intensely fake.

“You're crazy.” 

“Merely eccentric. Those are unkind words, little Lancer, and I'll have you call me eccentric before you call me crazy.”

“Fine, fine.” Coil muttered, annoyed. “At least you won't mind if I finish off?”

“Go right ahead,” Win said, without thinking of what that meant until he heard Coil's trousers coming off with a jingle. “Oh dear. Are you really?”

“If you won't do it, I'll have to. I can't sleep like this. Last call, Driver.”

“Must you do it insi- never mind, of course. Yes, do as you will. And good night.” Win fumbled for the other blanket, and pulled it swiftly over himself, as if he could hide from Coil.

His breaths made it hot and humid under the blanket, and for that Win was glad; it felt almost like the dustwrap, his ersatz condenser, and it was comforting. 

Win knew other War Boys touched themselves, pleasured themselves and each other; it was normal and most everyone managed to do it discreetly. He knew that it existed, had heard about it in gossip, and once or twice, had seen it while walking to his shop late at night. But for himself, Win willed those feelings away. Though at times he would wake in the nest, the inside of his trousers sticky, that was about it; the rest of it, he had no interest in knowing more.

But this seemed different, and he couldn't exactly pinpoint why he didn't find Coil to be repellent the way he found others. In fact, it was wholly the opposite.

Win closed his eyes tightly. And yet, even though he couldn't see, that didn't mean he couldn't hear.

“Ah...” Coil sighed. Spit in hand, or so it sounded like, and then he heard Coil's breaths coming fast, the slick wet sound of his sex as he stroked himself and even though Win could not see it, he could imagine it. Slow at first, Coil's strong hand firmly wrapped around his cock and those sweet low moans that came from deep in his throat and then his hand moved faster and faster, and the suspension gave a bounce as Coil's hips jerked against the blanket-covered floor of the car and Win felt strange, strangely lightheaded until he realized he was holding his breath.

Coil came quickly, with a groan, and blushing hot, Win pressed the blanket tight against his closed eyes, listening to the soft wet sounds of Coil licking his hand clean.

Eventually Win heard Coil sigh, shifting around on the floor of the car. Daring to peek out from beneath the blanket, Win laughed silently to himself, realizing it was full dark now and there was nothing to see anyway.

But Coil found him all the same in the deep night. His lips moved over Win's to kiss him goodnight and Win tasted Coil upon his tongue, an almost lingering savor on his lips and the longing grew inside him, a strange illness that wormed its way into ever fiber of his being.


	21. Chapter 21

Everything was fine if it was Coil. Crushed up against the side of the car, grappling as though in war, as though in a wrestle. Tangled up in a knot in a long-abandoned shop, his shoulder to the stone wall and Coil's cock hard against him, wanting until Win drew away with a sharp breath, waving Coil off.

Watching Coil pleasure himself, those pretty blue eyes fixed on him as he came, and Win would always end up looking away before that moment, hot with embarrassment.

He still hadn't made the offer official, but they certainly lived as though it were true. They worked together in the same shop, and slept together in the same nest now, taking turns cradling each other at night when it was cold. It felt strange to have someone so close to him. Even though there were many seasons where he had slept with Stonker by his side, that was different; Stonker was an innocent, a child that needed his protection. But here, here he had a War Boy who needed nothing from him other than the pleasure of his company, who had his six, who chased off unwanted interlopers by his mere presence and smoothed over his rough edges with the pit crew, who held him at night but who also liked being held.

It was a conundrum, living in this strange ambiguous situation and Win didn't want it to ever end, holding Coil in his arms but at arm's length. 

If only he could put off the inevitable just another day.

The nights slowly began to grow longer again, the season turning over like the great gears of the World Engine.

 

“Why haven't you made an offer yet? It's become unseemly. Some of the other Drivers are makin noises about you keeping a good Lancer to yourself without any intention of making a proper offer. Elvis has been at me, wantin to know when you're giving up so he can step in.”

“Moki, really. Tell Elvis he's shooting at the wrong car. I have no intention of giving up.”

“You also got no intention of moving forward. Make your offer official or you'll lose him.”

“Says who?”

“Says Acosta,” Moki glared, daring Win to disagree. “Shift or get out of the driver's seat.”

“And what if I don't?”

“Elvis wants him and doesn't wanna settle for another Lancer this season. Rip picked up a third Lancer for his truck this season but he says he could use a fourth--”

And the thought of Coil with someone else, especially as a fourth on a support truck team suddenly made Win go hot and cold, all at once.

“Then there's...Win, you okay? You look kind of sick. Did you eat something that don't, uh, didn't agree with you?”

“I'm fine, really,” Win lied. “All right, you've made your point. Promise, I'll have this done soon.”

“As soon as possible!” Moki said. “Please, Win, don't jerk that War Boy around on your chain! He's got eyes on only for you, you might as well make sure no one can go for the gap and cut between you two. Never seen anyone so mad for you. If I were in your boots, I'd...never mind, just do it, all right? Make the offer official.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Win nodded. “I'll take care of it right away.”

“Today. And shave and cut your hair! You're a mess.”

“Yes, yes. Today.” Win grimaced and it was just enough to be smile-like that Moki finally relented and left.

*****

Win paused after getting his food. He looked around the mess hall and remembered he should have asked someone to stand second for him. Moki? No, it would be too obvious, and besides, Moki seemed to have his hands full at some meet with his crew and the Imperator over supper; even from here Win could tell they were engaged in intense discussion.

Tran? No, no, no. He was sick of Tran; he hadn't talked to Tran about anything other than work in ages.

That left Stonker, and that was not possible; the child was with his cohort, still lined up for their supper and besides, this was a grown War Boy's problems, not fit for children.

Win sighed, looking over at the distant table where Coil sat. His eyes narrowed; someone had their arm around his Lancer and it seemed a bit more than mere friendliness.

Resolutely, bowl in hand, Win strode over to the table of Lancers and immediately found that there was almost no room.

“Say...” Win forced himself to at least have the pretense of politeness. “May I? Sit here that is?” He gestured to a spot beside Coil that was already taken.

The burly War Boy beside Coil glanced up at Win and untangled himself from Coil.

“Sure. Have a seat.” Blithely Coil gestured to his side, and around the table, the Lancers gave each other looks, gauging their positions and alliances silently until the lowest ranked, least liked among them sighed and got up, moving one table over to a half-empty table of Moto-lancers. The others shifted around in their places until Win was able to squeeze in.

“Is this the Win you been telling us about?” The burly War Boy asked and Win felt his shoulders tense; he had really had nothing to say to Moki about Coil, and both Stonker and Tran were too young to be listening to his personal business. 

Coil nodded, chewing. He leaned against Win briefly, and once he had swallowed, he said, “The very same.”

“Seems that my infamy has preceded me,” Win said lightly, touching his smooth-shaven scalp, careful not to smudge his fresh coat of white. He had gone to the Organic that took care of these matters earlier instead of doing it himself, and it was a better job than anything he could manage.

“Meet my mates, Win. Dart, Booster, Tank, Junker, Kelev, Bing...” And Coil rattled through their names with such ease that Win's eyes widened; this was nearly the entire Lancer pool outside of the escort, including Lancers in training, and there must have been over a dozen War Boys at this table.

“A pleasure to meet everyone,” Win nodded. “Though being only one of me and many of you, you'll forgive me if I don't know names right away.”

“No one minds,” said the burly Dart, “We're used to being overlooked.”

Chuckles and murmurs of agreement all around.

Win's mouth moved in a tight smile and he dug into his food, though his stomach was too nervous to enjoy it.

“How is it?” Coil set his arm around Win's waist, drawing him close by his side..

“Absolutely scrummy,” Win replied, and normally the heat of Coil's body against him sent a heady mix of excitement coupled with comfort through him, but now that wasn't really enough. He couldn't help but glance at Dart and wonder, couldn't help but think this was all a bad idea.

But then he looked up; this table faced a table of Drivers, and he could see the back of Elvis' head from here.

Win swallowed down the food, a lump in his belly.

Coil laughed. “See, this is what I was talking about. He has a way with words...never met anyone like him before.”

“And one should hope you never will,” Win said, endeavoring to be charming. Whatever the case, he'd deal with it, Win thought. The good outweighed the bad, the benefits outweighed the costs, and whatever his concerns, he'd face them as he moved forward, not trying to drive too far ahead of himself.

 

Win watched Coil finish the last of his food, licking the spoon clean. Unlike the older War Boys, Coil and many of his cohort – the first to have been born in the Citadel and thus the only ones to have never known life outside the War Tower – did not do more than scrape the bowl with their spoons; Win never ate without cleaning the bowl with a clean finger and his tongue, getting every last bit of residue.

Win eyed the crumbs of leftover food in Coil's bowl longingly, but then frowned faintly to himself. He had to focus.

“Ahem.” Win cleared his throat. “So Lancer, I suppose you know why I'm here?” 

“I could guess,” Coil said, and all around him eyebrows waggled and War Boys elbowed each other, winking and grinning, whispering in each other's ears.

“Come then.” Win squeezed out of his seat and taking Coil's hand, drew him to follow. He glanced at Dart, thinking that this was it; he was outflanking all his rivals.

The hum of conversation went on about him, and Win wondered how long that would last, how long he could pretend that this was any other day.

Coil gave him a querying look; most of these offers were quick procedural things, done sitting, sealed with clasped hands and a kiss, but this, this was something else entirely, and Win knew it. This was the old fashioned way of sealing partnerships; Win had seen it himself a long time ago on the long northern trade route when three young Traders joined into a new family. 

Pausing, he thought of Kier briefly. Back then, they had watched the brief ceremony from the inside of her family's truck, peeking out from beneath the canvas top, and he could remember her hand gripped tightly in his, and the brightness in her eyes from unshed tears. But Win set those memories aside. The past was done, he thought, long gone. There was nowhere else to go but forward, and so he knelt before Coil, without letting go of Coil's hand.

It trembled a bit in his grip, so Win clasped it more firmly, letting Coil know that he had his back. 

“Coil. Would you do me the honor of lending me your hand in partnership? That is, would you be my Lancer?” There. The words were done, and he kissed Coil's knuckles lightly.

_I'm crazy about you_.

The words echoed within him, but he dared not say it, not even with his hands. 

The table of Lancers erupted into cheering, shouts of the V8, and quickly spread through the mess hall. But for Win, he barely noticed, as Coil drew him up onto his feet and kissed him soundly.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene is set immediately after the last scene of [Delicia, chapter 2](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5595628/chapters/12893995).

“Now...I hope you have more than one lap around the track in you, Lancer, because I filled my lantern to the brim and I'm not about to stop until the light runs out.”

So much for bravado, Win thought. Once the words were out, he felt immediately silly and then when he realized what he had done, he found himself drawing back, disturbed at himself, ashamed. Unconsciously, he found himself buttoning his trousers back up again. He looked at Coil, looking for signs that he had hurt Coil, that he had gone too far.

But then suddenly Coil laughed, and Win gave him a skeptical look, trying to figure out what the Lancer was thinking. 

“Oh, Win. I know. I know it all. You don't have to tell me. And you don't have to try so hard.” Yawning, Coil drew him close for a kiss. “Everything you do says it. First...I'm going to need a few minutes before I can do it again. But then you wouldn't know about that, would you?”

“Huh?” Flummoxed, Win found himself at a loss for words.

Coil drew him down against his chest, wincing at the burn of the new brand but not pulling away. “My poor Driver. I know why you put me off for so long...and I know why you can't continue.”

“O-oh?”

Win shifted a little so that he was not directly touching the new brand on Coil's chest. Coil stroked his hand over Win's head, over his shoulders, past the brand which was thankfully skirted, and down the length of his spine. 

Win could hear the steady beat of Coil's heart against his ear.

“All this time, Win, and you've never done it before. I guessed it on that first run to Bartertown together and to be honest, after we got back I did ask around a little. From what I've heard, no one's ever had a go at you, so it makes sense.”

“Is that what you think?” Win laughed bitterly to himself in silence.

“It's true, isn't it? You seem to know a little but it's obvious that you've never been with another War Boy.”

“Oh that? Yes,” Win lied. “All this time, I was waiting for you.” His lips pursed. What was it like to be so innocent, he wondered, and then suddenly pain clutched at his heart and he smiled gently to Coil. Let him believe what he wanted, Win decided, for the truth would only hurt him.

“Then let me lead the way, Driver. I'll put us together on the right track and I promise you'll like it with me.”

“I'm sure.”

 

“You really weren't born in the Citadel, were you? You're different down here from the rest of us...” Coil said, stroking Win gently, his thumb running over the tender lip of foreskin at the head of his cock.

Heart pounding, Win shivered with pleasure, but that brought a slew of bad memories that he strove to forget. This was not the past, he argued with himself. This was Coil, who he loved and the admixture of longing and fear that ran through him made Win shudder, unsure of whether to draw closer or to pull away.

“No. I was born far away. Besides, I'm older. You and your mates are the first generation to be born to the Citadel. I remember when they first started bringing your cohort over when I was...ah, what are you doing?” Win's hand closed tightly around Coil's wrist, stopping his hand.

“Sorry.” Coil winced. “Ow, Driver, that hurts...”

Win let him go.

“Forgot how strong of a grip Drivers have.” Coil rubbed his wrist and kissed Win, as if to say he was forgiven or perhaps to apologize. “Sorry. I thought you'd like it. We'll try to find the right pace together, all right? That's how this sort of thing goes...”

“And just how would you know?” Win couldn't help but ask.

“Oh, it's just what's done around the War Tower. A lot of nonsense, mostly, but we War Boys know our way around all sorts of tools, including this.” Coil grinned and gave him a gentle squeeze. 

A hot spark of jealousy flared through Win. He took a deep breath, tamping it out. They weren't like Traders, whose partnerships were small and tight-knit; War Boys lived and breathed in packs. They were descended from Settlers, people he had seen in the past as a boy, fixed-dwellers whose communities mixed and co-mingled partners to expand their populations but keep their bloodlines clean. 

Win had reasoned it out long ago that since most War Boys were descended from Settlers, they must have kept traces of Settler customs even when there were no bloodlines to consider, and so instead of raging over what could not be helped, he managed a smile, leaning in to kiss Coil. It was not Coil's fault; he had a past much as Win did, and loving Coil meant loving all of him, even the parts that Win might not want to think about too deeply.

Coil kissed him back, and that was what Win loved the most from before they had been sworn, the closeness, the intimacy of those deep kisses, and he fell into it easily, letting Coil do as he pleased until he found himself gasping with need, pressed tight against Coil, his erection hard between his legs, grinding against Coil's hips, feeling Coil's stiff cock rub against his.

“You know what I really want, Win?” Coil whispered in his ear, his arms tight around Win's waist as Win thrust against him, shuddering.

“Mmm...?”

“I want to lance you,” Coil murmured. “Been thinking of it for a while, but I didn't want to ask before you were ready.”

“Excuse me? I don't follow.” Win's brows creased, and he pushed himself up so that he could better see Coil's face, propping himself up on his hands, one pressed against the frame of the window and the other on the driver's seat.

“You really want me to say it?” Coil blushed hot, and Win could see faint traces of red where the white was thinnest, over the tips of his ears and his nose.

“Certainly if it's that embarrassing you--” and Win caught himself before he said that Coil should not ask. “You ought to take more time with your words. Figure out what you want to say in a way that I can understand.”

“Too embarrassed,” Coil began, but then Win gave him a querying look and Coil sighed. “Fine. It's...uh, when the Lancer...well, I guess the Driver could do it too. Anyone really. And you're really going to make me say it, aren't you?”

“Mainly because I don't know what you're talking about. Please tell me it has nothing to do with explosives because if it does, I will have to decline and decline forcefully.”

Coil laughed. “No, of course not. It's...I put my...um.” Win glanced down briefly to see Coil grasping himself to make the point clear. “This, I put it in you...or the other way around, if you like, but really, I want you.”

“...in where?”

“In between your legs...you know, inside. Inside your...” And Coil fumbled with his hands, until they closed around Win's buttocks and Win found his eyebrows raised; that was not something he had known about before. Though like everyone else he had heard all the jokes, he had never thought that particular one was literal.

“Lancer.” Win looked at Coil frankly. “You recall that you yourself said that I was lacking in experience. This seems awfully...advanced for a first try.”

“You don't...?”

“Coil.” Win leaned down, pressing his forehead to Coil's. “Listen. I'll try whatever you want to try. But take a poor War Boy's feelings into account; maybe not everything all at once? We have plenty of time.”

“You mean tonight?”

“No, I mean for the rest of our lives.” Win kissed him lightly. Laughing, Coil dragged him down into his arms, kissing him deeply.

 

Afterwards, with the lingering taste of Coil on his lips, Win felt nothing but drowsy pleasure. Coil was hot in his arms, resting heavy against his chest, against the whole of his body, but he didn't mind the awkwardness, the discomfort. Let him sleep, Win thought, and he kissed the top of Coil's head lightly, drawing Coil closer protectively. 

For the first time in a long time Win thought not of the past or the future, but just this moment, wanting to draw it out for as long as possible, this feeling of closeness, of an intimacy he could not have ever imagined having for himself again in this strange lonely world. 

Tears threatened in his eyes, blurring his vision. The golden light of the lantern melted and then suddenly went out with a hiss and the shop fell into night.

Stillness and quiet, but for their breaths, and then Coil shifted in his arms with a soft murmur, trying to get more comfortable.

His breath hitched in his throat, and Win could not help but feel a strange, lingering sadness and something else, a feeling that he remembered distantly from a long time ago, but perhaps could no longer give it name.

“Coil. I'm crazy about you,” he whispered, thinking Coil asleep.

“I know, Win. I know," Coil said sleepily, his lips moving over Win's warmed skin. "I'm crazy about you too.”


	23. Chapter 23

“Out! Everybody out!” Win's voice raised above the clatter of work, and suddenly the shop fell silent, but for the lingering whir of a drill that clicked off a moment later.

The Revheads gave each other knowing looks.

“Surprised he didn't kick us out earlier. Not much more we can do,” one whispered to the other. Both were crouched half-hidden from Win's direct line of sight behind the frame of the car.

“You know it's the Lancer that keeps him steady these days. Used to be that any little thing and he'd...”

“Out!” Win roared, and the Revheads scuttled out of the shop, leaving without complaint. After all, free time was free time, no matter the circumstance, and they counted themselves lucky to have not taken the brunt of the Driver's wrath.

Win snarled, cursing the Revheads under his breath after they left. 

“Win, perhaps we should all take a break...” Coil ventured, managing a weak smile. “Close shop for fifteen...no, an hour. Start again later.”

“No. Just go.” Win paced the shop furiously, and turning the corner around the car, he skidded to a halt so as not to stumble over Stonker, who was sitting with his back to the rear driver's side tire, the shop's disassembled air compressor set out neatly beside him as he paused in putting it back together.

“Even me?” Stonker asked, brow furrowed in concern.

Win took a deep breath, half-closing his eyes for a moment. “Yes, even you Tonky. Please leave.”

“But I haven't started cleaning up.” Stonker stood up to his full height, meeting Win's eyes directly.

Win paused, taking a long, shuddering breath, fists clenched. He spoke stiffly through clenched teeth, “Yes, I know, and you have direct permission from me not not do it today. Please leave now. Go on, go.” Win pointed to the doorway. “Coil, do me a favor and take Stonker with you. We're done here.”

Before Coil could say anything, Stonker grabbed his hand and pulled him away quickly. Coil glanced back at Win as they left, but Win had turned his back to them.

 

“Don't like it when he gets mad,” Stonker said suddenly, once they were outside the shop. Coil glanced back, concerned that Win or anyone else might overhear.

“Let's take a walk,” Coil said, and he steered them away from the clatter of the working shops toward the access corridors, the ones leading out to the massive iron cable that ran between the Immortan's Tower and the War Tower.

Stonker glanced around as they walked. Once they were safely alone, he said it again: “Don't like it when Win gets mad like this.”

“No, no one does. Not even Win.”

It was not a very long walk, but they made it in tense, unhappy silence, passing through a series of doors that helped block the wind. Soon they were at the end of the hallway, where the swinging doors whistled and hummed from the wind that blew through its brittle edges.

When they stopped, Coil realized Stonker was still holding his hand, and so he let go. He pushed the doors wide, propping them open, and sat down in the space between the storage shelves and the outer wall, looking out at the terraces and traces of greenery that clung to the sides of the Third Tower. Shadows were already growing long, and below, the hum of the Wretched suggested that soon they would be changing shifts, the ones coming off the mills would be fed and watered, and those below would coming up through the Third Tower to take their turn generating power around the clock.

Stonker sat beside Coil looking out over the edge as well, using Coil's outstretched legs as a barrier against the possibility of falling. Stonker sighed and pressed his chin to his folded hands.

“Didn't know we could do this.”

“It's probably not allowed, but I don't think anyone will complain if we had a few minutes of fresh air. We'll be gone long before they can send an Imperator to check,” Coil said. “But you shouldn't do this by yourself. You could fall trying to prop the doors. It takes training.”

There was a long silence between them, and Coil rested his head against the rough stone wall, closing his eyes briefly. He had never seen Win this angry before; of course, there were times that Win had been testy or difficult, but this was something else entirely.

“You've known Win a long time, haven't you?” Coil asked.

“All my life,” Stonker said gravely. “Don't remember much about anyone before Win.”

“No? Has he...always been like this?”

“He used to be a lot worse,” Stonker frowned, brow furrowed. “He used to fight all the time. Don't remember it that well but...I remember being scared. He hurt someone really bad once. Beat him almost to death. Heard someone talk about it and thought it wasn't true but when I asked him...”

“It wasn't just idle gossip?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Coil rested his hand lightly on Stonker's shoulder. “Don't be, I'm sure he had good reasons for it.”

“Maybe. But sometimes he just doesn't like someone and bam!” Stonker mimed the punch of a fist. “Win says if you want to win a fight, you should always lead with the left, unless you lead with the right. Don't even know what that means.”

Coil shook his head, smiling wryly to himself. That was exactly the kind of nonsense that Win liked to say.

“Don't like to fight, not the way he fights,” Stonker mumbled into his hands. “Wanna fight Buzzards and Bandits as a Lancer or a Driver...but not other War Boys.” 

“It's possible to have to fight someone for rank, but to be honest, many of us get through our lives just fine without getting into an ugly fight with one of our brothers,” Coil said. “I've never fought another War Boy for rank or anything else before, and look, I'm doing just fine. So don't worry, you won't have to fight unless you want to.”

“So...Win wants to fight?”

“Not exactly. It's more like...Win is fighting himself,” Coil explained. “More than any other War Boy. And if other War Boys get in the way, he'll be glad to oblige.”

“Dunno what that means,” Stonker frowned. 

“Win's had a hard life,” Coil patted the ground beside him, and Stonker moved to sit beside him. Stonker's elbow bumped into the storage shelf, rattling it, and he half-turned to look at what he knocked over. Long fingers strayed to a loose bolt, and Stonker picked it up, turning it over in his hands. 

“Stonker, I don't know if he told you, but he was nearly captured by Buzzards when he was just a little younger than you.”

“Really? He never said that!”

“Surprised that he hasn't said anything,” Coil looked puzzled. “Win, Moki, and a few others were rescued by Immortan Joe and the Bullet Farmer.”

“The Daddy...” Stonker's eyes grew wide.

“The very same. Stonker, you and I were both born here; we don't know what it's like for War Boys who've had to come in from the cold,” Coil explained. “Know a few besides Win, and they all have sad stories. The world outside the Citadel is harsh. Dangerous. There's a War Boy I know who came from Bartertown, said he was kept chained in an underground methane farm, until Imperator Acosta picked him out of a pen of pups and freed him.”

“Is that true? They do that to people out there?” Stonker shivered.

Coil nodded. “Been to Bartertown, seen the slave pens. It's not a way for anyone to live.” Noticing Stonker's silence, Coil slung his arm around him, giving him a squeeze. “Out there everything hurts and every day is a struggle to survive. Just look at the Wretched, maimed and sick. You've seen them fight over water, for handouts of food. It makes them hard, makes them feral. Win probably had a horrible life like that before he was saved by the Daddy.”

“Hard? You mean, tough?”

“Maybe that...and maybe also mean. Cruel. Not to say Win's cruel; he's done nothing but good for me.” Coil smiled thoughtfully. “And I'm sure he's been good to you too. But he's had a cruel life.”

“Yeah. Win tells the best stories. Though...I guess he hasn't told any in a while. He used to tell me stories almost every night in the nest.”

“Oh, I didn't know that.” 

“Yeah.” 

Almost every night, Coil thought. He had heard rumors about this for ages, that ages ago, a War Boy kept a pup by his side day and night. So it was Stonker and it was Win, he thought.

“Do you miss him?” Coil asked suddenly.

“Why would I miss Win?” Stonker was puzzled. “See him every day in shop.” 

“Oh, I meant the stories,” Coil changed the subject. “Do you miss his stories?”

“Yeah, sometimes. But it was weird when Win kept me around all the time. He doesn't let me do anything fun. Get to do a lot more with the others now that he's not bossing me around all the time. Like the other day we went over to the Third Tower and-”

“You shouldn't tell me anything that will get you in trouble,” Coil smiled indulgently. 

“Oh.” Stonker laughed. “Right! Then let's just say that Win wouldn't have approved.”

“No?”

“No. He never lets me do anything. Said I should be careful, keep my head down.” Stonker sighed. “Now I kind of feel bad that we...that thing I'm not going to talk about. Please don't tell him!”

“It's fine. I promise, I won't tell him a thing.”

“But don't you tell him everything? Aren't you...best mates?” Embarrassed, Stonker drew away from Coil.

“Best mates doesn't mean you have to tell them everything,” Coil caught Stonker's eye, giving him a wink. “Just means that we're closer to each other than we are to other War Boys.”

“Oh. Good.”

“I promise I won't tell Win.”

“Thanks. I'm glad you're here,” Stonker said, embarrassed, mumbling the words. 

“Me too. You're a good pup.”

“He's happier with you around. Win's forever talking about you.”

“Really?” Coil was astounded; they never saw much of Stonker outside of shop hours. It was his turn to feel embarrassed. “He...he tells you these things?”

“Oh no, he never talks to me about growned-up stuff. He thinks it's rude,” Stonker explained. “But he talks with his hands all the time. Didn't you notice?”

“That he gestures? Didn't know that was language.”

“It's Trader lingo. Most of the time he does it when he thinks no one's looking, but sometimes he doesn't care and just does it anyway. Can understand almost everything he signs, even though I can't really sign back the same way, at least not with as many words as he can sign,” Stonker moved his fingers deftly through the alphabet, though he knew it meant nothing to Coil. “Guess he must have taught me some back when I was small.”

“What does he say?”

“Win calls you this,” Stonker paused, and then gave his index finger a brisk whirl. “And. He's said...uh, that he's crazy about you, and thankful for every day he's with you. Things like that. Or how handsome you are.” Stonker looked away, embarrassed.

“Oh.” Coil was amazed; he had never known that Win's occasional hand motions and gestures was any more than what they appeared to be. He noticed Stonker's embarrassment and changed the subject. “You said it's Trader lingo?”

“Yeah. He said he was a Trader before this.”

Coil nodded. “He told me that too. Poor Win, what a harsh life he must have had.” 

“Scary to think of the world outside.” Stonker shivered.

“Never forget that we live in the best place in the world,” Win said, patting Stonker's shoulder. “Everyone knows that. And you'll always live here.”

“Always,” Stonker grinned and Coil noticed that the boy seemed to have been done with his puppy teeth; he had half-expected a child's gap-toothed smile, but this was the smile of a youth, at the age where he was ready to become a Revhead. “When I was little, I used to think that I'd grow up and be Win's Lancer, but I'm glad he has you. Makes me wonder who I'll ride with though.”

Coil paused, about to say something, and then he noticed how Stonker's shoulder seemed level to his, and he looked at the length of Stonker's legs.

“Stand up, will you?” Coil pushed himself up onto his feet, and a moment later Stonker stood up beside him. “Stand up straight.”

Coil frowned slightly to himself. A child still, certainly, but one who was growing fast; Stonker was already a little taller than Win. Ten hands and growing.

“What's wrong?” Stonker asked, worried.

“Nothing, just thinking. You have five thousand days, give or take. Am I right? Win said it recently.”

Stonker nodded. 

“We should work on getting you promoted,” Coil felt the smile false on his lips, but he patted Stonker's shoulder. “You have a lot of shop experience already, it won't be hard to convince the Imperator.”

Stonker's eyes brightened. “You mean it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Chrome,” Stonker whispered to himself, unbelieving. “A Revhead, for true?”

“For true.” Coil dusted himself off, and began to close the doors, one after another, shutting out the sight of the Immortan's Tower. “All right, stay out of trouble. I'll go talk to him at suppertime, let him cool off until then.”


	24. Chapter 24

“You're talking to yourself again, aren't you? What's wrong?” Coil asked.

“Hmm?” Win looked up from the tangle of frayed and worn cable lying in his lap. It was already suppertime but Win couldn't leave this problem alone, not if he wanted to drive escort in the morning. 

“You do it all the time. Moving your hands like that...your lips move too when you do that, you know? Just a little. And sometimes it almost sounds like you're saying something, but it's no more than a hum. A muttering.”

Win tensed. “Oh?” 

“You...you were a Trader once, weren't you? I remembered what you said about--”

“The clutch cable's shot.” Win changed the subject, abruptly standing up to close the hood with a crisp thud. He walked around the car, closing the doors, putting away tools, consciously making an effort to still his hands whenever they were otherwise free. “Checked the supply room for a replacement, but nothing's compatible. Either we send to the forges and hope for the best or ask them to try to find us the right part in Bartertown. Either way it's both time-consuming and expensive. We can't do anything more for her tonight. Well, it's a bust tomorrow. Someone else is going to have to take our place. Will tell Moki we're out.”

“Oh no! Won't that affect our standing? We just made it up to fourth and now this. We'll get moved down--”

“There you go again about standing.”

“Standing is important. Don't you want to be the frontrunner? Drive a pursuit car?”

Win shot Coil a look of pure annoyance. “Crewmate, any vehicle built as light and fast as the FDK is by definition a pursuit car--”

“It's not the same as being the frontrunner. Win, you're really good, much better than the War Boy driving frontrunner now that Moki's on the War Rig. Don't you want to be at the top of the line?”

“Goodness, no. Why would I want that?”

“I thought that's what you'd want...”

“No. No, no, no. Absolutely not. Coil, that's what you want. And I don't care. I'm perfectly happy doing anything other than being the half-wit leading the pack of half-wits. Half-lives, that is. And as far as I'm concerned, one less trip out to Bartertown is a blessing,” Win snapped. “That's one less chance for both of us to die and a few days off to not have to think or worry about shop nonsense. I can easily do without Half-life Nobles riding herd.”

“What a thing to say,” Coil managed, shocked. “You really feel that way?”

“Oh yes,” Win said bitterly, putting away his tools with care even as he wanted to throw them in frustration. “Any sane and reasonable person would say that. After all, you've been to Bartertown. We've gone before together, when you rode provisionally with me. It's a terrible, terrible settlement.” Win said the word like a curse, _settlement_. “I wouldn't wish it on even the Buzzards.”

“Win...you can't say those things.” Coil said, shocked.

“I can and I did.” Win said tartly. “Go to supper. Tell Moki the transmission's shot. I'll catch up. Or maybe I won't. Either way, go.”

“Win...”

“Why you came back even after I told everyone to go is a mystery to me. Now don't make me make it an order, crew.” Win paced, turning fierce circles in the small confines of the shop, hoping to burn off some of his excess anger.

“What about you?”

“I'm certain that I'll live.” Win said dryly, and he pointed Coil to the door of the shop with a sharp gesture of his outstretched hand. “Go. Please.”

 

Win went through the shop, doing all the small cleaning jobs that Stonker would normally do, stacking dirty rags to be picked up by the Organics for washing, organizing all the loose tools, unplugging the electrical tools, and sweeping the floor.

Once he was done, he collapsed on the hood of his car. Stonker. Poor child, Win thought. Here he was, a fool who had his head turned by another fool, and he now realized that of late he had been neglectful in his duties toward Stonker.

Win thought about going to find the boy, but it was getting late, long past supper, which meant that the children would have been already sent off to their nest.

He sighed. Everything was a mess, and again he was quarreling with Coil over foolishness.

Food. Water. Rest. Win signed to himself, remembering that he had to take care of himself, to do all those things he was obligated to do to live through another day. 

Then he added one last word: Breathe.

 

Win sat in the lancer's basket, chewing a dried food bar, taking small bites to wet the food with his saliva, but upon swallowing a lump ended up in his throat anyway, and he had to wash it down with a sip of water. 

He wondered if the children got more since he wasn't there, that his portion would be split up amongst growing pups.

He licked the crumbs off his fingers, tasting iron.

The weight of a hand depressed the running bar of the basket. When Win looked up, Coil was already joining him in the basket sitting close, hip to hip.

“How was supper?” Win mumbled around the last mouthful of crumbly chickpeas and lentils. He swallowed, washing it down with a strong drink of water.

“Not as good without you,” Coil said with a shrug.

“What did Moki say?”

“I didn't talk to him, I talked to the Imperator.” Coil said, and Win noticed his stillness.

“Oh.” And Win wondered if this was it, if he'd be asked to be released from his oath. It happened sometimes, even the best of sworn teams sometimes failed. Not everyone turned out to be compatible; sometimes after the initial excitement wore off, War Boys got sick of each other or turned out to be poor workmates. Sometimes it was initiated by one partner or the other. Sometimes the dissolution of a team was even ordered from above, if the partnership proved too disruptive. It would be a minor scandal for a few weeks, but they'd find other people to ride with and life would move on as it always did.

Bracing himself for the worst, Win was then surprised when Coil gave him a wry look. “It was just about the car. What else did you think I was going to say?”

“Nothing, nothing. Nothing...” Win leaned back in the basket, the cold metal under his back slow to warm. He breathed a sigh of relief. “What did he say?”

“Only that it was a disappointment that the clutch cable failed and that next time, as head of your shop, you should report it yourself instead of 'sending your Lancer to do the dirty work.'” 

“Oh, Acosta doesn't really care who gives him the news,” Win waved it off. “It's just procedural nonsense. He just thinks there's some significance to propriety.” 

“Still.” Coil put his arm around Win, forming a barrier between Win and the cold steel at his back, and Win leaned into the embrace despite his lingering anger. “I'll remember next time and remind you.”

“You do that,” Win said crossly.

Coil glanced at him. “Do you remember...a long time ago, when we first met?”

“At the War Games?” Win lied. 

“No. Before that. When I was a Revhead...”

Win flinched guiltily, and Coil laughed. 

“No, sorry Driver. I'm not laughing at you, I swear. It's just...I wasn't sure if you remembered. But you do, don't you.”

“How...” Win took a deep breath. How could I forget, he almost said. But then he thought better of it. “How does it matter? Perhaps I recall a little of it.”

“Back then, I thought we were just becoming friends, just starting to get close, and then you disappeared. Except...you weren't very good at disappearing, you know.”

Win gave him a flat look.

“You tried all sorts of ways to change how you looked and you moved shop a few times, but there's only one car like the FDK and besides that, you've had that loose thread on your left boot for ages and ages.” Coil pointed to Win's boot. 

“Goodness.” Win was surprised to hear how much detail Coil knew about him, and it made him wonder how carefully Coil had been tracking him, even as he watched Coil from a distance.

“I was...really upset back then. I thought you didn't like me, that maybe I offended you somehow and you didn't want to be friends anymore. But Dart told me, and it was good advice, that a Driver of your caliber doesn't just spend time with just any nameless young Revhead. So I worked hard to be a good Lancer, to make a name for myself, to deserve your respect and attention.”

Win stopped himself before could correct Coil. Let him have his fictions, he thought; his fantasies of what it meant to be a War Boy, what it meant to be Drivers and Lancers. A little romantic fantasy harmed no one. Win smiled sadly and took Coil's hand, giving it a squeeze.

“So I pretended that I forgot you too,” Coil continued. “Even though...I never did.”

“It was a long time ago.” Win struggled with what to say. “You were very young. Too young. I didn't mean to hurt you.”

“You didn't, really. Not for very long. I learned to be stronger, to work harder to deserve your friendship.”

“It's not...” Win sighed. “It's not like that. You shouldn't have to deserve my attention. It's just that...”

Coil leaned in, silencing him with a kiss.

“You know I'm crazy about you, Win.” Coil's voice was low, intense, and he was still so close that when he spoke, his lips brushed lightly against Win's lips. “I'm thankful for every day that I have you.”

Win's breath caught in his throat, as if all the secret words that he kept deep inside of him had suddenly bubbled out to the surface.

“Same,” he said weakly, not having the words to tell Coil how he really felt.

 

“Certainly I have no idea how you talk me into these things...” Win said, flat on his back on the floor of his car, the shop lights all turned off but for for the gentle glow of a burning lantern, reminding him of their first night together. His breath caught as Coil pushed his legs apart and slid a greased finger into him, and Win tensed before he could stop himself.

“It's because you're crazy about me. Now relax. Take a deep breath,” Coil said, as he added another finger, working Win gently.

Win's breaths came uneven but he did his best to stay calm, to breathe deeply and relax and loosen all the muscles of his body. This was already more than he could have imagined but he had promised Coil he'd try, and if he was to be completely honest with himself, there was a part of him that was honestly curious. Just as Coil wanted the brand and had whispered to him about what he wanted and how he wanted it for ages before their first night together, and just as Coil wanted this, Win found himself doing all sorts of things for the young Lancer that he didn't think he would ever want or even want to try.

“The things you talk me into,” Win sighed and then Coil's fingers pressed something deep inside him and the pleasure that shot through his body was so sharp that his hips jerked up involuntarily.

Coil smiled, and he worked his fingers in deeper, adding yet another finger, sliding his fingers in and out, working Win, stretching him out, and Win gasped at the pleasure, at the stretching pain as he was opened up. Settling between Win's legs, Coil gently eased them further apart, leaning down to kiss Win as he pressed his fingers in deep.

“Now, here's where I come in...” Coil whispered into his ear, and the scruff of Coil's growing beard grazed against Win's throat and sent a shiver through his body that trembled him to the bones.

“Do it. Quick, before I change my mind,” Win muttered, and Coil's fingers slid out, replaced by the hot hard pressure of his grease-slicked cock.

“It's better to go slow,” Coil said, but he pulled Win up by his hips. Coil angled himself and slid in slowly.

Win gripped Coil's shoulder tight, fingers digging into his flesh.

“Driver. Driver...Win. You're hurting me,” Coil winced.

“The feeling is mutual,” Win hissed between his teeth, but he eased up on his grip.

“Relax...” Coil paused and kissed him.

“I am trying, but you are a very big War Boy between the legs and I do not know how exactly how you talked me into this madness and ungh!” Whatever it was that Coil's cock touched inside of him, it sent a shock of pleasure through him that nearly canceled out the stretching pain.

“There...” And Coil slid back a little before thrusting into him again, and Win felt it all the way through him, that intense feeling of pleasure and he bit back a moan, keeping his mouth shut, stubborn, not making any more noise than the hiss of breath through his nose.

It was both pleasing and excruciating, and somehow, partway into the act he suddenly realized he was doing it; he was in his body and Coil was there too, and yes, they were really joined together like this, so close and deeply intimate, Coil's arms hot around him, Coil taking more of him than anyone else in his life up to that point and when Coil's cock thrust deep inside him again he wasn't sure what any of it meant until he felt his body arch up against Coil, and his breath came in gasps between the pain and pleasure.

“The things you do...” Win gasped, and he batted Coil's hand aside when Coil moved to touch him between the legs.

“Win?”

“Don't.” Win jerked up against Coil, panting. He looked away from Coil, at a few scattered tools on the floor behind the driver's seat, and he wondered who was supposed to put those away. “This...is enough...”

“Mmm...” Coil's lips pressed against his throat, hot breaths against Win's ear and Win gave a shudder. 

Without meaning to, Win began to count the seconds as though he were driving against the Buzzards. There was pleasure to this, but an edge of pain too, and he wondered how much longer it would take for Coil to be done.

It wasn't much longer, and there was a pause, that familiar hitch in Coil's hips and then he came with a hot spurt that Win could feel deep inside.

Win shuddered, feeling Coil's hips grind against him, and the heat inside of him. With a kiss, Coil thrust a few more times, languid and gentle, before slipping out wetly.

The ceiling of the car was deeply shadowed, so dark as to be black and Win stared at it, his arms around Coil's strong back, feeling shifting muscles as Coil settled against his body, heavy and uncomfortable. But he didn't mind, not if Coil liked it.

It didn't take long. Coil drifted off to sleep.

It took a lot longer for Win to fall sleep.

 

Sometime in the middle of the night Win woke into a deep darkness broken distantly by the cold blue light of the moon spilling in from the air shaft. The sticky heat between their bodies, and the lingering ache between his legs woke Win from troubled dreams of the past, dreams that he had not had in a long time, and he was shocked to realize that there were tears in his eyes.

The warren. In his dreams he had been in the warren, and the stone was cold and rough beneath his bare feet, and a sharp shard of rock bit into the ball of his foot, but the pain--

“Are you all right?” Coil whispered, and Win felt a pang of regret; whatever he did, he must have accidentally woken Coil.

And then the sharper edges of the dreams crumbled and faded into nothingness but here he was, still feeling all the wounds as though they were fresh, even though it had been so long and--

“Fine. It's nothing. Sorry for waking you, was just cold,” Win muttered, and so Coil found the blanket, drawing it around themselves tight.

I'll keep you warm, Win,” Coil whispered drowsy, drawing Win into his arms, stroking gently the bare skin of Win's back as if he were a child awakened from a nightmare. Win clutched him tight, remembering that this was Coil's familiar warmth and embrace. This was Coil who had his back, who could protect him as he protected Coil. Coil who was brother and partner, spouse and child. 

Coil, who loved him.

Win turned his head, blinking back his tears so they would not touch Coil.


	25. Chapter 25

After another supper alone, again fending off questions about his Driver, Coil made the long spiraling walk to the lower warren where the smaller auto shops were, clustered in their stone-cut rooms like insects in a hive. Wind whistled through the hallways from the central shop, unseen fingers of air stroking the bare skin of his head and torso, and after the friendly warmth of the mess hall it made him shiver, hugging himself.

Coil walked slowly, deliberately, trying to think of what to say. It had been a lonely meal without Win. Sometimes on days like this he wondered if Win still wanted him, remembering those early days when the Driver had rebuffed him. All these days, ages and ages, and he had never known if he had been promoted to serve in the War Rig shop on purpose or if it had been Win's doing, to have him moved away. He thought about the times he had gone to find Win in his car shop after supper, only to find it empty, its Driver disappeared into the small community of War Boys, hiding in plain sight.

He thought of the times he saw Win from a distance, not knowing he was looking.

Coil steeled himself and stepped into their shop.

It was empty, and he felt a sharp pang of pain, of worry, wondering if Win was trying to avoid him. But then he heard a tiny clink.

Relief melted through the tension in his body and smiling faintly to himself, he went around the car to see a pair of boots, crossed at the ankles, sticking out from underneath the car. 

Coil knelt down, and peered under the car. There, illuminated by the bright light of a bare bulb, its wire run down as far as it could go, was Win, staring at the mess of twisted wire cable that he had jury-rigged into a new clutch cable. 

“Driver, the Half-life Nobles aren't here to push us. You know you don't need to do this,” he said gently. 

Surprised, Win's breath caught, but then his lips quirked into the hint of a smile, realizing it was Coil.

“Yes, yes. But it doesn't hurt to make the appearance of trying, even though this is a trash patch. Doubt this cable would hold up beyond a few klicks.” With that, Win pushed himself out from under the car, the creeper clattering beneath his back.

“Then what's the point?” Coil knelt down, pressing a kiss to Win's forehead, taking in the dry scent of the white against his nose.

“O my Lancer, it's always worth keeping up appearances. And it means we now have two free days to ourselves.” Win dragged him down for a kiss, the creeper creaking beneath his back.

 

Afterwards, they laid panting on the floor of the shop, tools scattered and forgotten, the bulb swinging dizzily until Win reached out to steady the dancing light.

“Stonker's getting taller.”

“Is this what passes for pillow talk these days? Really, Lancer, talk about something else.” Win closed his eyes, yawning.

“I'm serious, Win. Stonker's getting taller.”

“So? His mo-” Win quickly shut his mouth and to his relief, Coil did not notice.

“So he won't be able to qualify for Lancer,” Coil continued, pressing a kiss to the center of Win's palm. “He's already taller than you, nearly ten hands. By the time he's full-grown, he might be over the maximum height. There's a cap at ten and three quarters.” 

“Good.”

Coil pushed himself up on his elbow. “What do you mean, good?”

“I meant exactly what I said.” Win pulled his hand back. “I would rather the child never go to war.”

“Win...”

“I'd rather not go. I'd rather not let you go, if I could convince you. If I had my choice we'd all be Organics, picking beans up on the farms, digging new terraces when they give the order.” Win pointed above his head. “It's tedious work but it's better to die soft when we're good and old, with no hair to worry about shaving and white stubble that won't show easily through the white.”

“You say that but you go to war just like everyone else.”

Win glared at Coil, biting back the fighting words. He took a deep breath. “Tell me what's on your mind, crew.”

“We should start training Stonker to be a Driver. Push him through the Revhead system as fast as possible, and get him a Lancer spot just long enough to get him a ride. Let him show his paces for a season, and then get him promoted to Driver.”

“No.”

“No? Why? You can't keep him from moving up in the line. It's going to happen someday. He's got a sharp eye and a keen mind. He'll easily qualify for Blackthumb once he's a Revhead; you've taught him well. Why shouldn't he be be at the top of the line?”

“Because...” Win's mouth quirked in an odd motion, and then he shook his head. “Don't do it. Promise me you won't.”

“I can't promise that, Win. You can't keep him from growing up. Stonker's already as big as a grown War Boy, taller than you. This is what he wants. He wants to be a Driver, just like you.”

“He should do whatever it takes not to be just like me. Let this go, Coil. Leave it be.”

“Hmmph.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

Coil said nothing, but took Win's other hand, pressing a kiss to his palm.

“That had better be a promise, Lancer...”

*****

Coil waited around the bend of a corridor, listening to the sounds of moving water and cheerful voices echoing through the corridors of the warren. It had to be quick, the message had to be clear, and he had only one shot; any lingering or loitering, and Coil knew that he could be found out if he hesitated.

As soon as the sound of water stopped, he counted to one hundred, waiting for them to dry off. Normally people dried off quickly; even with the waste heat from the furnaces, the catchment was open to the elements and cold wind came through. Once he heard the sound of boots, he moved quickly, estimating that he had about 15-20 seconds to get the job done.

“A word?” Coil quickly caught up with Moki on the stone-carved stairs that wound up toward the upper warren. Coil felt a little safer; Win never came up this way for any reason, only if it was absolutely necessary and even then had to be coaxed. 

Without the heavy coat of white Moki's skin was black, gleaming like polished slate in the low light of the warren, catching Coil off guard. 

“Yes?” There was a note of surprise in Moki's voice, and looked past Coil as if he expected someone else to be behind him.

It took Coil a moment to compose himself, and when he looked up to Moki's eyes, he realized in the low light he could not quite gauge the other War Boy's expression, his deep-set eyes obscured by shadow.

“Win's not here. In fact, don't tell him, please. It's about Stonker. He's old enough to be promoted now, and seems that he could make a good Driver someday. He'll be too tall to be a Lancer soon.”

Moki opened his mouth to reply, to say something reassuring perhaps, but then he closed his mouth and it seemed as if his whole demeanor changed as his gaze moved past Coil.

“Stonker, did you say?” Coil turned and saw Imperator Acosta coming up the stairs behind him.

Coil felt himself flush beneath his white, and he bowed his head, raising his hands to form the V8, to salute the Imperator, who gestured it away as if it meant nothing. 

“None of that now.” The Imperator's sun-darkened skin was still beaded here and there with stray drops of water, and Coil realized he had never been this close to the War Rig Imperator before. Up close, it seemed that the Imperator was even larger than he was, his presence filling the small space of the stairwell despite the fact that he stood on a lower step than Coil. “What's this about Stonker?”

“Imperator Acosta. Um, seems that Stonker should be promoted soon, and trained as a Driver. He'll never make Lancer for long, he's already tall. In a thousand days he'll probably be too tall to even consider qualifying for Lancer.”

“How tall is he now?”

“Ten hands.” 

Acosta's eyes narrowed, his stern scarred mouth tightening into a frown as he tilted his head slightly, his fingers moving through the air. “Four thousand...no, five thousand?”

“5,170s minimum.” Moki said. “Maximum around 5,200.”

“So it is. Very well. Coil, is it?” The Imperator looked him over, nodding to himself as if pleased with what he saw.

“Yes, Imperator,” Coil ducked his head, pleased to be known to the Imperator by name.

“Thank you for bringing this up to me,” the Imperator said. “I'll handle the matter directly. Until then, discretion.” Without another word, he walked past Coil, who pressed himself against the rough stone to give the Imperator space to pass.

Even after they left Coil could hear their low voices in intense conversation, echoing through the stone.

*****

“...whatever they might say about love or desire or wanting you, it's a lie. Don't ever let them touch you-” and Win turned, hearing footsteps.

Coil came around into the shop, just in time to see Stonker wiping at his face, tears running down his cheeks, cutting through the white. 

“Oh. Well. I suppose we're done here.” Win handed Stonker a clean shop cloth, the edges of the cloth neatly hemmed and embroidered. “Were you looking for me, Lancer?”

Coil's eyes darted to Stonker, gulping down his tears, wiping his face with the black cloth, streaking it white and then back to Win. “What's going on?”

“Nothing yet. Say Lancer, have you heard of a War Boy named Topper?”

“The Driver? Works three shops down? That Topper?”

“My left or right?”

“Your right.”

“Win, wait, nothing happened...” Stonker stood up to stop him, but Win was already gone, walking briskly out toward the central shop through the vehicle entrance. A moment later, Coil found himself chasing Win down, hearing the shouts of anger, of fighting. 

“You! Do not! Touch! The children!” Win had a War Boy on the ground, punctuating his words with his fists, as all around the War Boy's Lancers and Revheads watched astounded, frozen with shock.

“Didn't do anything!” Topper roared, as he shielded himself from Win's fists with his own arms, trying to kick at Win to make him back off. “Just invited him to look around my car!”

“That's how it starts with you lot. Playing at mentor and then ruining innocents,” Win spat, fighting vicious and mad until Coil ran in and pried him off of Topper, pinning his arms to keep him from striking the other War Boy again.

“Crazy filthy feral!” Topper stumbled onto his feet, spitting blood, as his Lancers rushed in to support him. “What was all that about? Got no beef with you!”

“You stay away from the children! Stay away from Stonker! Keep your filthy hands to yourself!” Win snarled as Coil dragged him away.

 

For Win there had been no formal censure, no formal punishment. Not a word from the Half-life Nobles nor from the Imperator ever filtered down to them. Everybody knew that it was against custom to invite a War Pup or a young Revhead to a private car after hours; no matter how innocent the intentions were, it looked bad.

But punishment came nonetheless, in a series of little events, and for a long time Coil wasn't sure if it was punishment for trying to hold Stonker back from promotion, or punishment for starting a fight in the middle of the day over something as trivial as a War Pup.

In fact, for a long time, Coil didn't realize it was punishment.

*****

Drowsing in the nest and shivering, Coil reached out for Win, but found nothing. He woke, bleary-eyed, and as his eyes focused he realized that Win was pulling on his boots.

It was still dark, probably another hour of sleep to go. Reluctant to move out of the warmth of the nest, Coil forced himself up, dusting himself off before finding his boots.

Though clearly impatient, Win waited for him anyway, and when Coil was ready Win took his arm, leaning in close to ward off the pre-dawn chill.

They took the long way up to the upper warren, eschewing the twisting stairs, bypassing the living quarters of the Imperators. Coil wondered if he should say anything, but decided against it, as if shattering the silence might break something else, something more crucial.

Soft murmurs of pain, of suffering, and they knew they were near the wheel shrine. In the icy gray pre-dawn light that seeped in through the airshafts, Coil watched as two Organics loaded a corpse onto a cart. Another death in this cold season, he thought, and he raised his hands to form the V8. No Valhalla for this one, but Witnessed nonetheless. Not the most glorious of afterlife awaited this War Boy, but he had earned his existence and would be remembered.

Distracted, he hadn't noticed Win who stood silent and unmoving in the corridor of the infirmary, so distracted that Coil had to gently move him out of the way when the Organics passed with their corpse. It stared with blind eyes gleaming wet, its stiff hand trembling as if with renewed life as it was rolled rattling away.

About to say something, to ask Win why they had come to the wheel shrine at this hour, Coil's eye wandered over to the actual shrine itself, lit by both the warm light of the rising sun and the sacred flame of the turning sun wheel, the fire that was not allowed to burn out.

There, before the massive chrome edifice of the shrine and with his head bowed was Stonker, kneeling before the Imperator Acosta. Around them stood the Half-life Nobles, standing Witness, watchers now but really guardians, the extended hands of the Imperator. 

Acosta was already shaving the boy's head smooth, taking off the stubble of growing hair, his low voice murmuring prayers. His strong, careful hands moved delicately, taking care not to shed blood before the great gleaming mass of wheel shrine, before the Immorta herself, and Coil wondered who it was who had sent Win the message to come.

Coil put his arm around Win's shoulders, and felt Win shivering in the cold morning air, trembling so hard that it seemed that he was rattling his very bones.

With a gesture, Imperator Acosta handed the straight razor over to one of his Half-life Nobles, who cleaned the blade with a black cloth before closing it with a click. The Imperator ran his hands over Stonker's smooth head, saying something gravely that Coil could not hear before helping Stonker up onto his feet.

As he stood, Stonker looked over, and upon seeing Win his whole expression changed, his face lighting up with joy and expectation.

“Look how happy he is,” Coil murmured, “to see you at his promotion.”

Win pulled away from Coil's arm, stepping forward to salute Stonker with the V8, his mouth moving into a shaky smile that never reached his eyes.


	26. Chapter 26

Damp with sweat and grit-coated with a golden sheen of dust, Coil panted beneath his dust wrap as the chrome silver practice car pulled in beside the other two waiting cars. The black practice car came in as well, swinging sharply through the dust to park quickly beside the rust red. Both cars shuddered to a halt as the Drivers set the brakes and killed the engines, climbing out and shaking off the drive from their arms, the strain from fighting the wheel for control. 

Dust swirled in a thick gritty cloud before blowing away in swirling drifts of dust devils, and once it was clear Coil pulled off his dusk mask for a breath of fresh air.

“We done yet?”

“No. Never.” A War Boy joked, and it made everyone chuckle.

“So what was the point of that run, if the Imperator didn't come to observe? To supervise?” Elvis asked, irritated as he leaned against the black practice car. 

“Practice.”

“Well, Moki and Ace are here, that's pretty much the same as the Imperator being here, right?”

“Pretty much! They tell him everything.”

“Shh, don't talk so loud, they'll hear.”

“Is Moki even a Half-life Noble?”

“Ya live under a rock or what? Don't you know that it's cuz-”

“So it's a field trip.” Win came over to Coil, his face masked entirely between his black dust wrap that was so old it was faded to gray and his round chrome-black goggles, the metal chipped and dented at the temples. Without a word, he handed Coil the canteen, heavy with water and gratefully, Coil unscrewed it and took long pulls of fresh water, still cool from having been in the car overnight. “A holiday.”

“Working holiday.” Coil handed the water back to Win, who delicately drew up the bottom edge of his dust mask to reveal the pink curve of his lips, untouched by white. Win took a long sip, drinking lightly before recapping the bottle and tossing it back in the car through the open window.

“Why's the Imperator so late?” Elvis grumbled.

“Heard he's training.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, some Revhead he's taken under his wing.”

Coil glanced at Win, who had hidden his face back behind his dust wrap and was looking away, studying the distant horizon. A plume of dust appeared and Coil could feel himself tense, a lump of fear sliding through his guts like the plunging temperature of a storm. Was it Buzzards? No, just a distant dust devil, twirling itself out into nothing.

But then Win turned, looking down the Immortan's Road, and the motion caught Coil's attention. A sleek pursuit vehicle came roaring down the Immortan's Road from the north, from the waste beyond the Bullet Farm, and Coil recognized it as the frontrunner's car, the one that drove the position of honor on the convoy. 

“Moki's car but Moki's here. So who's drivin?” 

“Obviously the Imperator.”

“What's it doing coming from the north?”

“Maybe he went for a drive to clear his head.”

“Clear his head of fools, more like. Long practice runs, that's what the north is for. North's pretty safe driving, lots of open waste, Buzzards usually stay to the east and the south. Filthy scavenging Bandits in the west. Look, are you dumb or what? Oh right you're just a Lancer.”

“Hey! You take that back!” A little scuffle broke out, a play fight more than anything serious as the Lancer tumbled toward his Driver. By the time it settled the pursuit vehicle pulled up beside the practice cars, parking beside them.,

Even though dust obscured the Driver and the passenger beside them, Coil could see it was being driven by a War Boy, and that the passenger was an Imperator. But the mystery did not last long; the doors opened soon enough. Acosta came out first, and a second after him, a tall War Boy stepped out, and even before Coil could see him clearly through the obscuring clouds of dust, he knew by the way the War Boy moved that it was Stonker.

“I need two volunteer Lancers and a Driver,” Acosta's grave voice was deep and authoritative, and Coil found himself stepping forward automatically, more by instinct than by desire.

Acosta pointed to Coil and to Booster, a young Lancer who was riding these days with Elvis, and they both came to stand before the Imperator. Coil glanced at Booster, giving him a querying look and Booster gave a little half shrug, glancing back at his Driver warily. Acosta looked around, first at Topper, then Elvis, and then finally settling on Win, who stood with arms crossed, his head tilted slightly so that he was looking at his boots.

“Win.”

With a motion of his hand, he beckoned Win forward, and Win paused for a moment as if he was not certain he was being selected.

There was a pause, and the Imperator gestured again.

Reluctantly, Win stepped forward.

“For fairness, your Lancer will ride with the Initiate,” Acosta said, pointing Coil to Stonker's side. “After all, it wouldn't be fair to train a novice against a sealed team. Stonker, why don't you drive the silver for now? Win, take the black. Booster, go with Win.” 

Booster gave Coil a curious look and Coil shrugged, not wanting to say anything. But as he passed Win on his way to the silver practice car, Coil gave Win's shoulder a gentle squeeze, as if to remind him that he was, as ever, on Win's side.

“Let's keep this simple, Drivers. An easy dueling run, nothing fancy. Aim for good placement for your Lancer. We won't use the practice lances this time around. Remember what I taught you, Stonker.”

“Yes, Imperator. Will do.” Excited, Stonker could not stop smiling, even as he glanced over at Win for his approval. Win nodded slowly, his expression masked behind cloth and leather and glass.

“Best to chase than be chased. Flank when you can. Just like we practiced...” Acosta walked Stonker to the practice car, and Elvis quickly moved out of the way of the Imperator as he came close.

 

Coil gripped the handrails lightly, shouting encouragement to Stonker, who glanced back at him before every turn to make certain he was hanging on.

“Eyes on, Stonker! Trust Coil to do his job!” Win shouted from the open window of his car which kept pace alongside for a few seconds, before suddenly braking and tucking in fast behind them. Coil glanced back and tightened his grip on the handrails; this was a favorite move by Win, who liked to give the front car a firm shunting if he was positioned behind it, as if to drive home the point that the other Driver messed up. As the black practice car roared forward to shunt, it backed off at the last second and swerved away.

Coil stared, amazed, his eyes following the long smooth trajectory of the black practice car as it drove back to the staging area, dust dancing in its wake. 

“Time?” Stonker asked, voice raised over the whine of the engine.

“Yeah, time!” Coil shouted, and the silver followed a parallel course to the black, only a few seconds behind, kicking up a storm of gravel and dust as it swerved.

Stonker drove smoothly, Coil thought, with a finesse that went beyond most new Drivers' abilities. Certainly there were moments of hesitation, of uncertainty; an inexperienced War Boy's drive no doubt. After all, a good Lancer could feel the Driver's thoughts in every turn of the Wheel and every shift of the stick. The balance between brain and feet, of throttle-brake-clutch showed the Driver's every emotion and Coil could see the fundamental fineness and ferocity of the drive; whatever Acosta had been doing to train the boy, the Imperator knew his business.

Coil smiled beneath his dust wrap, pleased that Stonker was doing Win credit.

But until the practice car shuddered to a halt, Coil had not noticed he was still gripping the handrails tight, still waiting for Win's shunt.

 

By the time Coil stepped out of the lancer's basket, Win was already fussing over Stonker, praising the specifics of his drive and giving him pointers, and all seemed well to Coil but for the fact that Win had not taken off his obscuring goggles, and that there was a certain subtle tension to Win's voice, to his shoulders that suggested something else.

“...and make sure to observe other Drivers,” Win finished up his thought. “Always worth watching to pick up some new ideas.”

“Observation doesn't replace experience.” Imperator Acosta gestured to Stonker. “Take the silver again, Stonker. Elvis, take the black this time. Practice lances, thunder up.” The Imperator pointed to two other Lancers who were waiting around with their Drivers.

Coil glanced at Win; on one hand, he was glad to not be riding with or against Elvis who was a notoriously rough Driver, but on the other hand, it didn't seem fair to leave Stonker with a Lancer he didn't know. 

“If only it had been Dart,” Coil said softly to Win, linking his arm with Win. They both averted their gazes as the cars took off, spitting up dust and gravel beneath swiftly turning wheels.

“If only. How is Junker?” Win asked. “Never watched him very closely.”

“Competent. Not as good as Bing, but not bad either.”

“Hmm. How Bing doesn't have a ride yet this season, I wonder.”

“Hear he's holding out for a better ride. Wouldn't blame him.” Coil's gaze slid over to Elvis. “Not that many good Drivers this season.”

“Exactly what is that supposed to mean, Lancer?” Win huffed. “Look, look. There's a perfectly good Driver in the silver, ready to ride the Fury Road. Fang it, Tonky! Fang it!”

*****

“Check the rota again,” Win said, careful to sound casual, as if he wasn't quite sure but at the same time didn't care too much. Yet his hands were shaking and his expression fixed.

He took a long, shaky breath, not daring to meet Coil's eyes.

Coil ran the tip of his finger down the posted list on the wall, chalked out with the Ace's neat handwriting, listing all the Drivers. “Says we're serving the Immortan's shop. What's the matter, Win? We'll be late to the Games but it's a great honor.” Politely he moved aside, drawing Win away so as not to block the rota, already the other Drivers and Lancers were clustering around the assignment board, gossiping and complaining about their allocated jobs.

“Certainly,” Win shivered, looking away. “Quite an honor.”

 

If he kept his head down, he could survive anything, Win thought, as he polished the glistening chrome grill of the Gigahorse with a large piece of fine cloth. He had never seen the shop cloth bin in this shop before, and it was completely different from those the War Boys had around the shop, discarded and torn scraps of some pale, dust-colored cloth that was woven too fine, too delicate for this purpose. Where it came from, he did not know; he supposed he could ask the Organics who washed the rags, but even they might not know for certain. No one but a handful of shopbound Blackthumbs served the Gigahorse shop permanently, the rota went through among the entire population of Drivers, Lancers, and Revheads and until now, Win had never been selected. 

An Imperator passed. Tense with fear, swallowing all his anger and hate, Win looked away, focused on the work, hoping he did not recognize the man, and then relaxed a little when he realized it was only Acosta, who was giving orders about setting up a small step ladder for the Immortan's convenience.

If he just kept working and never looked up again, he could survive anything. But those were empty promises; they always had been, and even when he was just a boy he had understood that. 

Any minute of any day could be the last, and it was wholly up to the whims of Joe, Win thought. One wrong move and he could be beaten, trashed, or shredded. Any of them could be. 

Win glanced over at Coil, at his strong arms and muscled shoulders, at the supple strength of his lean waist, and a fierce protectiveness came over him; if Joe wanted Coil for an Imperator, he wouldn't go down without a fight.

Lost in dark thoughts, Win missed the moment that the Immortan came into the shop.

Quick as a swooping bird, Coil caught him by the elbow and pulled him away from the Gigahorse, toward the wall and in a fumbling moment of hesitation, Win looked up, standing at attention, and formed the V8 with his hands, saluting the passing Immortan.

The Immortan passed, a massive black shadow, and in his wake trailed a girl.

 

Head bent piously, hands raised in salutation, Coil didn't realize the Immortan was not alone at first. But then he saw the trailing hem of her long dress twisting behind her ankle and the motion caught his eye and he peeked up. Coil saw the Immortan's massive hand wrapped around her delicate wrist, pulling her along. She was tense, the muscles of her body jerking away from the Immortan, and then he realized that she was looking at him.

This was what they called a prize breeder, Coil thought, a rare and delicate beauty that had sprung up untouched and unsoiled from the waste like a pure, hidden spring in the cleft of the mountains. Her long dark hair escaped the edges of her veil, the tips curling past her shoulder blades, and he could see the curve of her body through the pale, sheer material.

Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, but there was a hard defiance in them, and her lips moved faintly.

Help me, she mouthed, and Coil did not know what to do. Help her? With what? But then he saw that they were going into the Gigahorse, and so he moved forward; perhaps she wanted help up into the tall car? But Win's arm was an iron bar against his chest, holding him back even before he realized he had moved.

Win shifted his grip, closing his hands around Coil's bicep, holding him tight.

The Prime and Secundus Imperators moved forward to put her in the vehicle, struggling, but Immortan Joe stopped, turning around, and leaned close beside her, saying something softly in a rumbling voice that Coil could not hear clearly. Her entire body tensed all over, and then a breath later her head bowed, defeated.

But as the Imperators bundled her into the Gigahorse, she turned and looked back at him, and he was struck; why, she was no more than a child. Even Stonker was older than her, nearly a full-grown War Boy compared to this girl. This was a pup hardly out of her milk teeth, with slender arms and lanky legs that were still growing and a child's soft round face. But her eyes, her eyes had seen more than any Citadel-bred War Pup had, and there was both a hardness in them and a sadness that he could not understand. 

He wondered what she could have seen, to put such pain in her eyes.

The sun crested the Immortan's Tower, and the warm morning glow suddenly filled the shop, as if the veil of shadow was suddenly stripped away, torn off in a sharp motion.

Her clear eyes were green, like the gentle mist of green that rose in the waste after a rare rainfall. Not the deep green of the farms, not the artificial green of plastics and tools, but an impure green, colored by the browns of the waste. A true green, struggling to survive in the harsh desert of the wasteland.

The moment was over, but it had been like the hot sear of a flash of lightning, burning into his eyes, into his memory in a way that he knew he could never forget, the afterimage following every blink.

Coil's body moved before he thought, but then he felt Win's hands on him, fingers digging into the flesh of his arm so that he came back to himself. And as the big black doors of the Gigahorse closed, hiding her from view, he heard someone speaking softly into his ear.

“Forget her,” Win was saying. “It will only cause you pain.” 

There was more that Win said, but Coil did not hear it, so focused was he on trying to catch a glimpse of her beyond the black panel of the door, the glossy black steel blocking her from view.

The Gigahorse's engines roared to life, and whatever else Win said was drowned out by the growling engines.

And at the time Coil thought perhaps that it was already too late to forget, although it took him many years before he wondered how Win could have known.

**Author's Note:**

> For K.
> 
> Detailed notes to follow upon completion.


End file.
